Dear Antirealist
by Winged-Violoncelle
Summary: *Confirmed non-AU* Molly Hooper has filed for a long temporary leave and disappeared from Bart's. While trying to pinpoint her whereabouts, Sherlock Holmes uncovers a conspiracy, and finds himself discovering a lot more in her diary than he expected. *Post-Reichenbach filler* *Philosophy of science*
1. Sigmund Hooper

**Edited A/N: This story was thought out before S3 was released, and I'm proud to say that it is not AU :). I don't even have to change any of my thoughts for upcoming chapters. It is a very appropriate gap filler.**

Rated T for paranoia. Base of cover image borrowed from tumblr user _jinglebatch_. Please PM me if you want it taken down.

Post-Reichenbach pre-Series 3 (obvi) filler. **Takes into account the contents of BBC canon blogs.**

My first attempt at a proper mystery, spiced up with a scientifically philosophical (fun, eh?) perspective on Sherlock and Molly. Slow build. I hope you enjoy.

There may be some references to my _Since the Shower_ vignettes, but nothing of importance. One thing you might want to know from my head-canon is that Molly draws.

Reviews are loved. Constructive criticisms are worshipped. Britpicks are thanked with ample tears of happiness.

* * *

_**Dear Antirealist,**_

_"What's in a name?"_  
_- Sincerely, from a Realist_

-Chapter 1-  
_Sigmund Hooper_

The keys turn and jingle. Molly Hooper stumbles from the menace of the storm into the comforts of home. She shuts the door and leans her soaked, frail body against its rough, splintered wooden surface. She takes a sharp breath and lets her shoulders sag; the day has been long. Fragrance from the large basket of potpourri by the door fills her lungs and chases away lingering formaldehyde from the morgue. She smiles.

"Dr. Molly Hooper. Greetings."

Molly's eyes snap open. She gasps and chokes a scream away. Her fingers grip nervously at the wood behind her as she tries to find the doorknob. She is paralyzed by the unexpected, and she cannot.

"Oh, my sweet, I wouldn't advise running now; it's far too late," a slick and muffled voice taunts.

A figure in black stands opposite the pathologist, covered from head to toes by a hooded robe, the exaggerated smile from his Guy Fawkes mask terrifying in the dim light that reflects through the sole window of Molly's flat.

Guy Fawkes takes a single step forward. Molly tries to shuffle back, scraping her heels against the door's edge.

"Who are you?" She stutters the predictable words, knowing full well the potential futility of inquiry.

Guy Fawkes sounds like he is smiling, and looks always like he is smiling. "That's not for you to know, love. Curiosity is a dangerous drug."

A silence brims the air. She is suffocated by terror, certain that he is inhaling morbid amusement from the fright radiating from her countenance. They stand and stare, for seconds, then for minutes.

"What do you want?" She steadies herself and ventures. Guy Fawkes does not move against her yet; his intention must not be to kill, nor is it likely to harm.

A soft laugh expires through the thin, unnatural gap that is Guy Fawkes's mouth. Guy Fawkes raises his left hand, a thin piece of paper clipped between two of his slender, bony fingers.

"You. On this train. Tomorrow night."

Molly squints and attempts to read the content of the ticket. It is too dark, and he is too far; she cannot make out a word.

"And what if I refuse?"

Guy Fawkes pulls his right hand from his pocket and points a gun at Molly's forehead.

* * *

"Um, excuse me..."

A timid, wavering baritone of a grown man. A lost tourist? Or a desperate passer-by searching for the loo? Abigail wipes some sweat from her forehead and looks up impatiently from her pile of paperwork. She almost immediately rolls her eyes.

Ginger. Dirty cap. Hideous moustache. Tacky sweater. Faded jeans. Abigail can see the handle of a wheeled travelling luggage sticking a few inches above her desk. _Probably here for the loo_. Abigail groans internally, and asks with a perfect smile, "Yes, how may I help you today?"

The man glances nervously around the reception hall, and fiddles with a camera in his hands for a good while. Abigail keeps smiling, almost beginning to feel pain in her face.

"Um, I'm looking for Dr. Molly Hooper..."

Abigail's features sink. "Sir, if this is another attempt at a Sherlock Holmes scoop in the papers, then not only do I have to inform you that Dr. Hooper does _not_ wish to be interviewed, I will also have to beg your employer to give it a rest. It's been months since the incident and no one really cares anymore."

"Oh no, no," the man stammers, reddening in embarrassment. "I'm... I'm Moll - Dr. Hooper's cousin. Newly moved from Beverley. Just arrived from the train station, in fact. She... she told me to meet her here at three."

"Oh," Abigail mouths flatly and, on seeing the man chuckling diffidently to himself and refusing to meet her eyes, almost speaks with a sincere apology. But soon she remembers something, and her eyebrows rise dubiously. "That's strange. Dr. Hooper filed for a temporary leave two days ago."

"What?" The man's head snaps up, and the receptionist can see horror in his eyes. "But she told me she'd... she said she'd meet me right here!" He mutters the phrase repeatedly and paces in front of the reception desk, seeming like he's about to cry any moment.

_To think I thought _Dr. Hooper_ was timid, _Abigail remarks to herself, trying not to throw rude verbal jabs at a toddler in a man's body. "Well, now, sir, don't worry. You do have her phone number, don't you? You could just call her. Maybe she just forgot."

"But I _have_ been calling her," the man squeaks agitatedly, lifting his large, bookish glasses and dabbing his eyes with a coffee-stained sleeve. "I've been calling her all morning, but she's not... she didn't..."

Abigail hastens to interrupt a potential monologue of gibberish. "Sir, I'm sure she was simply in an area without signal. Maybe she was in the Tube on the way to meet you. Maybe you missed each other. I'd advise calling again - "

Suddenly she remembers something, and her brows rise once more. "Though I do remember her saying that she wanted to be out of the city for some fresh air."

The man's jaw drops and he gapes at her in shock. The camera in his hand drops to the ground with a crash. He jerks and crouches by the scattered parts, hands waving about wildly in the air. It seems that the shock of having been deserted by his cousin has clouded his ability to think; for a while he does not even attempt to pick anything up.

"What's going on here?" A jolly voice sounds over his head. The unfortunate man looks up and sees a good-natured round face behind a pair of old-fashioned spectacles.

"Ah, Dr. Stamford," Abigail's voice sounds behind the reception desk, its flat tone betraying her decaying patience. "This young man here claims to be Dr. Hooper's cousin who just arrived from Beverley, and insists that Dr. Hooper has arranged for a meeting right here, right now."

"Molly's cousin?" Mike Stamford examines the man curiously. The man hastily looks away and scrambles to collect bits of his precious camera.

"He does look like her a pinch, doesn't he? Maybe without the 'stache. Well, good sir, I regret to tell you that you won't find her here. She filed a temporary leave two days ago, and she definitely didn't come in today."

"That's what I said," Abigail points out. "He doesn't seem to want to believe me."

Stamford glances at the man who is reassembling the camera with trembling hands, and gives Abigail a mildly reproachful look. "Dear Abby, you're a little too hard on the poor chap. He just got here from Beverley, for God's sake. A trip of any form can be tiring." Then he turns to the man and smiles. "Don't mind Abby; she's a little impatient at times, but she means well. Ever been to London before, Mr... uh..."

"Hooper. Sigmund Hooper," the man rubs his nose and mumbles. "No, I haven't, Dr. Stamford -"

"Call me Mike, please."

"Oh, um, yes, Dr - Mike. It's my first time here; I lost my day job back in Beverley and I'm looking for a fresh start. Moll - Dr. Hooper's my only relative here, and she promised to settle me down and find me something to do, and she said..." He sniffles again and keeps rubbing his nose. His nose is turning very red.

Stamford stares sympathetically at the visibly shaken Sigmund Hooper, and extends a hand to help pull him from the ground. "Well don't worry now, Mr. Hooper. I'm sure you'll reach her soon enough. Would you like to come into my office and have some afternoon tea while you try and get in touch?"

"May I?" Sigmund blinks and straightens his glasses, almost taken aback by the kindness. Stamford nods with a warm, friendly grin.

"Oh thank you! Thank you so much!" Sigmund returns a hearty smile and bobs his head repeatedly, as he clumsily gathers his belongings and follows Stamford, nearly tripping over the untied laces of his worn All Stars sneakers. Abigail rolls her eyes at his hunched back and scoffs.

* * *

"So, Sigmund, is it?" Stamford pours a cup of hot earl grey and delivers it into Sigmund's hands. "Bit of an unusual name."

"Yes," Sigmund squirms uncomfortably on the chair, and accepts the tea with a nervous smile. "Mum was a psychologist, and she used to really like Freud."

As Stamford sits down behind his own desk, he catches a bit of disdain in Sigmund's knotted brows and laughs. "Ah yes, Molly's talked to me about that before; said her aunt in Beverley used to like pointing out phallic symbols in absolutely _everything_. Bet your mum regrets it now, doesn't she? Freud's becoming old-school. But I suppose that's how science works; everything becomes old-school eventually. However, I assure you, while Sigmund's a bit of a strange name to be stuck with, it's not the most unusual I've heard. "

"True," Sigmund tries to chuckle, but manages only a light snort before the stammer returns. "Well, S-Sherlock's a pretty unusual name. I heard the receptionist talking about a Sherlock Holmes who's apparently famous in London, because she mentioned that he was in the papers. Does he work here with Molly? Do you know Sherlock, too?"

Stamford's grin quiets into a frown. "He was a friend," the good man says, sighing with a shake of his head and turning away. "He... passed away nearly three months ago."

"Oh. Oh God," Sigmund jerks, hand trembling and spilling hot tea onto the saucer. He reddens and glances nervously around the room, not knowing where to look. "I-I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to - oh God, did Molly know him too? I'm sorry, I shouldn't even be asking - "

"No, no, don't worry," Stamford hastens to pass him napkins, the well-meaning smile returning to his face, though melancholy has crept into it. "Molly was... well, closer to him than most. When you see her, try not to mention his name. She'd withdraw into an awful daze."

Sigmund nods repeatedly and takes a large sip of the hot tea. It nearly burns his tongue and he crumples his features in pain, but Stamford is looking outside a window now and hardly notices. "Molly and I have grieved, but my friend John..." he shakes his head again and heaves a sigh.

"Who's John?" Sigmund ventures curiously, but soon stiffens and babbles, "Oh, I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry - "

Stamford chuckles. "Easy, Sigmund, I never accused you of it. In fact, I think it helps me to talk to someone about this, someone who isn't grieving and doesn't think Sherlock's a - " he takes a sharp breath and rubs his face with both hands. "I digress. John, John Watson. Old friend of mine; we went to school together. He was Sherlock's flatmate. We've all... moved on somewhat, I suppose. But John's still a terrible mess. Wouldn't go out drinking with me since it happened, and he hasn't ever before refused a drink. I worry about him."

Sigmund looks sadly at his worn sneakers and pulls uneasily at his moustache. "...I'm sorry."

"You're too kind," Stamford laughs, aware that he has made the atmosphere too solemn. "You've never even met him."

Sigmund chuckles awkwardly and rubs his nose again with a sleeve.

"Has Molly texted back?" Stamford changes the topic and asks, "You texted her ten minutes ago. Molly replies like lightning."

"No," Sigmund mutters as he holds up his phone and shows Stamford the one-sided conversation on the screen, panic building again in his voice. "I d-don't understand. There must be some kind of mistake - she said she'd meet - did she really request leave two days ago?"

Stamford scowls and fumbles through his drawers. "I still have her note somewhere - ah, here." He passes the paper over the desk to Sigmund. "Handwritten, too; she gave it to me personally. Said she wanted to have a little country fresh air. I'm not surprised; she hardly went on holiday for the past four years at least, always occupied with Sherl - " he catches an alarmed glance from Sigmund and checks himself. "Anyway. She tacked all her accumulated holidays onto this one; she'll be away for two months at least. I gave her permission; she looked like she needed it."

Sigmund takes the paper and inspects it carefully, his moustache twitching, horror distorting his features more with every moment passed. Suddenly he slams the paper on the desk and buries his head in his palms in despair. "This, this really is Molly's writing! I'd recognize it anywhere because we'd rather write to each other than email! She wrote... she wrote she'd be out of town for two months. Two months!? Why... why hasn't she told me this? Is she even okay? What will I do now?"

Stamford is alarmed at the suddenness of the outburst, and quickly tries to sooth him. "Relax, Sigmund. I'm sure she's all right and everything will work out fine." Just then, an idea suddenly illuminates his mind. "Listen, if she doesn't reply, how about I drive you to her flat after my next lecture? Even if you don't manage to get in touch with her, you'll have somewhere to stay in until she responds."

Sigmund looks at Stamford incredulously, tears in eyes, and Stamford feels for a moment like a great saint. "Would that... really be okay? I mean... wouldn't that trouble you?"

Stamford laughs. "Of course it wouldn't trouble me. Molly's a good colleague and friend; this is the least I can do."

"Oh thank you! A million 'thank you's' from the bottom of my heart!" Sigmund rises from his seat and shakes Stamford's hand violently, still sniffling and eliminating tears from under his large glasses with his free hand. Friendly though Stamford is, he still can't help but wince a bit as he watches Sigmund wipe away snot with his left sleeve.

* * *

When Stamford returns from his three-hour lecture, he sees from the glass window of his office that Sigmund is sitting in the same chair, staring blankly into a photograph of Stamford himself, John, Sherlock, and Molly. _Poor chap; must've been bored to death._

Stamford thinks of Molly as he enters his office, and his heart sinks. Molly did not reply, evidently, otherwise Sigmund would seem less distraught. But Stamford knows that Molly would be the last person to stand up anyone, let alone a close relative. He wonders if something was wrong, but the questioning is brief; it is more important to first escort Sigmund to Molly's flat in Shoreditch.

After a smooth drive, they are greeted by Molly's white-haired landlady, Mrs. Crawford.

"You're asking me where Molly is?" she exclaims surprisedly, after exchanging hugs with Stamford. "Mike, she told me the day before yesterday that she was going to give you a note. Didn't she?"

Stamford glances uncertainly at Sigmund. "Well, she did. But for some reason she's also told her cousin to meet up with her today at the hospital. Sigmund, this is Mrs. Crawford, Molly's landlady. Mrs. Crawford, this is Sigmund Hooper from Beverley. He said he'll be staying with Molly while looking for a place to settle down; it'll be a temporary thing. I hope you don't mind."

Mrs. Crawford examines him and smiles. "Of course I don't mind; I'd welcome darling Molly's family anytime. Hullo, Sigmund; how do you do?"

Sigmund is mouthing a barely audible "how do you do" when Mrs. Crawford walks forward and takes his hand in hers. "Oh dear, you're just as timid as her when she first met me. Strange that she never mentions you, but then again she doesn't talk about her family much. Well, you certainly seem like a sweet young chap, though I'd shave the 'stache."

Sigmund blushes and tries to wiggle his hand out of hers, but Mrs. Crawford laughs. "Don't be shy, dear. Came to stay with Molly, did Mike say? We'll be seeing each other quite often then. Won't you come over to my place with her on the weekends? You probably can't knit scarves, but we can have tea parties."

"Um," Sigmund stumbles and wonders whether he should agree, as Stamford chuckles heartily beside him. "He's a grown man, Mrs. Crawford. Spare him the knitting and the tea party!"

"I thought _you_ liked my tea party, last time you were here for Molly's birthday," Mrs. Crawford exclaims as if she were offended, but Stamford soon extinguishes the budding chiding, for another thought has caught his mind. "Never mind tea parties, Mrs. Crawford. Molly did say she'd be away for two months, yes?"

Mrs. Crawford frowns and stares sympathetically at Sigmund. "I'm afraid so. She's put me on a strict, long Toby-feeding schedule. This is quite out of character of her, to leave her poor cousin alone in London like this."

Sigmund looks like he is about to burst in tears.

Suddenly, a beep sounds from his pocket, and he quickly seizes his phone from his jeans. "It's Molly!" He exclaims in relief, and Mrs. Crawford and Stamford press in unison, "What did she say?"

Sigmund reads the text, and reddens with every second passed.

"Oh God. Oh _God_," when he finally recollects enough to speak, he stammers practically every word. "I-I'm so, _so_ sorry! I... I misread her last letter. She wrote... she wrote _May _29th, not _Mar._ 29th! Oh _God_ I'm such an idiot. I-I'm _so_ sorry for all the troubles I've caused, I don't even - "

Mrs. Crawford and Stamford exchange glances and, to his surprise, burst out laughing.

"That's all right, dear," says Mrs. Crawford through a few chuckles of relief, "Now we all know that Molly is safe. What are your plans now, Sigmund? Molly made it quite clear to me that she won't be back until May. Will you go back to Beverley?"

"I..." Sigmund tugs nervously at his moustache. "I suppose I'll have to, but I can't go back for the next two weeks at least. Mum and Dad are in Dartmoor and... I don't have the key to our house." He looks sheepishly at the screen of his phone again, and stutters with a blush, "A-Actually, Molly asks you in her text if you could let me in for today at least? She's at an Itzhak Perlman concert and she can't phone."

Stamford smiles; he finds himself not at all surprised by the fact that Sigmund, thirty at least, lived still with his parents. "Today? I don't think so. I think, Mrs. Crawford, that you've got a new tenant in Molly's flat for the next two weeks."

"That is just what I think as well," Mrs. Crawford echoes cheerfully, and quickly takes Sigmund's hand again. She begins to drag him into the stairway, while Stamford wheels in Sigmund's luggage behind them.

"Is this really all right?" Sigmund asks uncertainly as they ascend a flight of stairs. He squeaks as Mrs. Crawford laughs and gives him a very tight squeeze on the wrist.

"Of course it is! The flat itself isn't much, and lending darling Molly's baby cousin a hand is the least I can do for her. And quickly, dear, text Molly and tell her not to worry; Mrs. Crawford's got it all down!"

Sigmund's moustache twitches uncertainly. His lips involuntarily curl to form a grin of his own.

They stop before a door on the second floor. Its green paint is peeling off, and it is rather splintered. Sigmund's brows are entangled in a soft scowl as he inspects the door, but once Mrs. Crawford turns her keys, a faint fragrance of potpourri envelops him and his new friends. He feels refreshed and smiles.

* * *

Mrs. Crawford and Stamford spoke with him for over an hour, asking silly family questions that he had to improvise answers to based on his knowledge of Molly. Though he did not dislike the presence of good Mike and kind Mrs. Crawford, Sigmund felt only too glad when they finally walked out of the door and waved him goodbye. The only living presence he has to tolerate, then, is Toby the cat, who, thankfully, has no problem staying silent (most of the time).

Sigmund shuts the door and almost immediately breathes a long, quiet sigh. His hazed eyes suddenly become lucid, and they scan warily around the flat. Dust lines are intact. Furniture and belongings are organized. There's been a strange blackout two days ago that affected even mobile devices, Mrs. Crawford said during an earlier conversation. And Sigmund, while chatting with Mike and Mrs. Crawford outside, received a one-word text from the embodiment of the British Government: "_Clear. M_"

All this could mean only one thing. _The flat is not bugged._

Suddenly his back is no longer hunched as he kicks off his shoes and bolts to the bathroom, throwing his cap on the ground and peeling off his moustache. "For the love of God, that was _beyond tedious_," he spits through his teeth as he arrives at the sink, swiping off his fat glasses and slamming them by Molly's toothbrushing cup. He stares at the red hair and the freckles in the mirror for a moment, before he groans and rips forcefully at his hairline. The red wig falls, revealing tangled, dark curls underneath. He snatches a towel by the bathtub (hardly registering that it has his most loathed cartoon cats printed on it) and turns on the tap. He scrubs frantically at his face for some minutes, until water in the sink has turned from all strange shades of pink back to clear and colourless, until he looks up into the mirror again and finally sees _him_.

Yes, that's better. Much better.

Sigmund Hooper can for now retire.

Sherlock Holmes has returned.

Sherlock stares for a few seconds at his reflection with a satisfied smirk, cheek bones high as always, eyes gleaming with confidence. It has been a long day. It is a relief to be free from the shy and sentimental Sigmund Hooper at last. It is liberating, even for a few moments, to have himself back, the world's only and most brilliant consulting detective, the Sherlock Holmes who cares for naught but the excitement of intellectual sparks.

He spins around contentedly, producing his phone from his pocket. Perhaps he should send Mycroft a clever and demeaning message telling him that he's made it in, before changing out of these hideous jeans? He shuffles absentmindedly through his inbox and whistles a new tune he was just composing in his head, until a single line pops onto his screen - the line of text that called for, no, _demanded_ his immediate return from his hiding in Iceland to the battlefield that is London. His face drops, and his eyes cloud.

_'The wolf has taken the rabbit.  
M'_

Sherlock surveys Molly's small flat and frowns.


	2. The Notebook

"One day, my dear Dr. Hooper. You will have one day of mercy, one day where you can make your proper arrangements and say your silly goodbyes. Cherish it. You may not be able to return for a while."

"...Will I _ever_?"

"The answer really depends on you, doesn't it? Look at you, poor trembling creature; thinking of return even before embarking on your wonderful adventure. Why do you fear, love? I never meant for you to be scared, and seeing you like this breaks my heart; really, it does. In fact, I pity you so much, little bird, that I think I'm going to give you a tip."

"I-I really don't need - "

"Ah, but I'm going to offer it all the same. Try not to do anything funny. _We are watching_."

* * *

-Chapter 2-  
_The Notebook_

_-Day 0._

Molly does not switch on her lights, even after Guy Fawkes leaves. She is too disoriented to remember such a trifle. It is a miracle that she makes it to her old sofa before her legs give in, and she collapses, spent and nauseated from chilling trepidation.

She curls in a corner of the sofa, pillow sandwiched between chest and knees. Her arms wrap around her legs and her hands are gripping, digging into her jeans. She can feel her fingers tremoring against her legs. She can feel the hard edge of the train ticket cutting into the centre of her right palm. She can also feel Toby's soft fur tickling her feet, and hear Toby's feeble purr that sounds helplessly insignificant in the stifling stillness of the night. But she cannot move, cannot think. She can hardly _see_.

She sits, frozen and shivering. Evaporating water from her drying apparel robs her of body heat with every passing moment.

_Bleep._

She suddenly finds strength in her limbs again, and springs from the sofa in a flash. The pillow plops at the foot of the sofa. Toby screeches and leaps away.

She staggers toward the door and reaches for her bag, which she dropped the moment Guy Fawkes whipped out a gun. Her convulsing hands fumble aimlessly within the bag for minutes, until she finally growls in despair and violently dumps all contents to the floor. _Crash_.

In the mess of keys and gadgets and shades of nearly inseparable darkness, she perceives a soft glow and seizes it. Her phone. A text from Meena, but that is hardly important now. What is the time? Her lips quaver. Ten thirty.

It has been three hours since she returned to her flat. It must have been two hours at least since Guy Fawkes left. She has less than twenty-four hours in London, and she has already wasted two. She kneels and stares at the screen, face ashen, limbs numb.

Suddenly, her thoughts snap and return to her; she begins to pace frantically about her living room, mind churning in chaos.

How did this happen? How did he get in? Who could he be? Why would he choose _her_? Why was she so stupid and scared and didn't even think of a good way to fish for any information? Why couldn't she be as intelligent and observant as -

_Sherlock?_

Molly halts abruptly, her hands dropping to her sides.

She does not know what Sherlock is doing, or where Sherlock is.

But she does know that Sherlock is alive.

Molly bites her lip and takes deep breaths, feeling her heartbeats slow. She may not be as astute as a consulting detective, but her hunch tells her that this incident, in all possibility, may not be solely related to her own safety.

She must no longer let fear dominate; not when other people's security is at risk, especially his.

But they are watching. She doesn't know how, and trying to find out would probably get her shot. What can she _do_ right under their noses in less than twenty-four hours? She glances desperately around and begins to chew her nails. Nothing. Nothing comes to her mind for minutes that feel like gruelling hours of torture, until the voices of two acquaintances suddenly resonate in her head.

_"Miss Hooper, we are indebted. I will be keeping a friendly eye on you."_

_"That man needs to stop being so creative. Intercepting me at an ATM machine! Seriously?"_

Oh.

Molly switches on the lights and walks into her kitchenette. Toby has been watching her motions keenly, and promptly runs after her. The cat leaps onto the kitchenette counter and sits by the sink, continuing to stare. Molly pours herself a glass of water and sees that her hands are no longer shaking.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees her beloved locked diary lying on her small dining table. She steps toward the table and seizes the notebook. She opens the lock with a small key from her sweater pocket, and tosses the lock and key into the trash.

Molly frowns as she gazes at the leather cover of the notebook in her hands.

Her feeble attempts at contacting him may all amount to nothing. Maybe the proud consulting detective wouldn't even care enough to come, or maybe his brother wouldn't let him. Even still, she will try. She has to try.

"All right!" she suddenly declares out loud, making Toby jump. "The first thing I need to do before I go is to finish analyzing that last neurohistology slide I took home from Bart's yesterday. Mike wanted it done this week and I can't leave him dangling, right, Toby?"

Toby meows softly.

Molly stacks her plates away into the cupboards above the sink. Then she opens the storage cabinet underneath. Bottles and apparatus knock against each other; minutes later, the dining table is covered by Molly's entire collection of flasks, beakers, and other glassware. Molly retrieves her microscope from her bedroom and sets it up within the pile of glass. She spends a few hours completing her analysis of Mike's neurohistology slide.

Then she pulls out a piece of blank paper to write a leave note. Her pink notebook rests underneath the paper as support, as she scribbles carefully away.

When she finishes the note at last, she packs her suitcase, and organizes her chaotic living room. She does not put the experimental equipment away. "The microscope is too heavy and it's too much work. I hardly think it's worth it, since I don't know when I'll be back. Right, Toby?"

Toby nuzzles his furry head against her ankle.

It is two hours past midnight when Molly finally finishes all of her chores, but she doesn't feel the slightest bit of fatigue. Sleep would not find her this night. She sits at her sofa and occasionally paces about her flat until the sun is high, its rays filling her living room with brightness and coziness that she has not the leisure to notice.

9:00A.M.

Molly springs up from her sofa and rushes into the bustling streets of London.

She takes a cab to the Bank of England, and withdraws one thousand pounds over the counter for her upcoming "adventure". In case Guy Fawkes is kind enough to let her bring some allowance.

She then runs to the nearest ATM machine, and withdraws 505 pounds more.

* * *

_"Mycroft, this is preposterous."_

_"No, Sherlock, this is precaution, and unless you would rather risk seeing ghost stories in the headlines that would attract the attention of Moriarty's remaining network, I'm afraid you don't have a choice."_

_"I can evade people easily enough. It's what I've been doing all my life!"_

_"Perhaps, but you can't deny that you're at my disposal now, and you have to do as I say. Do I need to remind you who it was that came to me and _pleaded_ for help?"_

_"Oh, fine. Fine! For the next three months, I'll be this long-distance consultant in Iceland, but on one condition. If John - "_

_"The hound, Sherlock."_

_"Oh for God's sake, I'm not in Iceland yet!"_

_"That's not a reason to let your guard down."_

_"Would you quit trying to interrupt my point? If John - "_

_"_The hound._"_

_"- If any one of _the hound_, the bear, the panda, or the rabbit is in danger, I will be compelled to return immediately."_

_"You will be summoned if the situation is dire."_

_"Don't try to brush it away with an obscure statement, Mycroft! I repeat, if anything happens to any one of them, I will return immediately. This is my sole condition, and I will _not _leave this city until you spit out an agreement!"_

_"And I repeat, Sherlock, that you will be summoned if the situation is dire."_

* * *

-_Day 3._

Sherlock scoffs and closes his inbox. Perhaps he won't send Mycroft anything after all; he begrudges his brother still, for taking more than twenty-four hours to inform him of Molly Hooper's call for help. If Sherlock were the one keeping tabs on Molly's bank account, he would've acted immediately: Molly rarely asked for assistance from anyone, and when she did, something was always _very wrong_. But no; it took _one whole day_ to convince Mycroft Holmes that Miss Hooper's peculiar double cash withdrawals and her shaded S.O.S. were important enough for his attention. One, entire, day of wasted, precious time! She could be whisked out of the country now by criminals, for all Sherlock knows.

Sherlock surveys the flat again, and his countenance darkens even more. The timid pathologist is one of the few people to whom he, the most brilliant consulting detective in the world, owes a debt, not to mention her knowledge of his secret links her well-being directly to his own safety. Should Moriarty's criminals ever catch wind of his survival, she would be their first target, and he knows that only too well. For this reason, when he was in Iceland, he often found himself wondering how she was faring more than he liked, especially when he allowed himself a cup of coffee on rainy mornings - black with two sugars.

When he first saw Mycroft's text, his heart skipped a violent beat and sank. He jumped in front of his laptop and booked the first flight available from Reykjavik to London.

On his way to the airport, Mycroft briefed him on the situation. "She filed for a long leave in person yesterday morning, using a handwritten note. No one has seen her since she left Bart's."

_Threatened? Abducted? Handwritten... did she leave a clue? _Sherlock tapped his fingers together impatiently as he mused on the cab, all the while wishing he could teleport to London this minute.

He spent his entire flight planning his grand return as Sigmund Hooper. He arrived at the hospital five minutes before Mike Stamford was due to pass by, and caused a scene just as Abigail was beginning to feel suspicious. He manipulated a sympathetic Mike into showing him Molly's note, which fulfilled his purpose of dropping by the hospital. It was a bonus that good Mike offered a drive to Molly's; it spared him a good bit of acting that he suspected was necessary to garner the landlady's trust and gain access to Molly's flat. He didn't need any outside help apart from a bit of bug detection and a well-timed text from Mycroft; all his purposes were achieved with minimum action.

"Well, holding a camera to lure Abigail into thinking I'm a reporter and mentioning my name wasn't really necessary," Sherlock mumbles to a curious Toby, who perches lazily on the window sill and stares. "But I needed a proper incentive to bring my name and... other names up to Mike."

He turns away with a frown and shakes his head, focusing his attention on the living room again. No suspicious scratches at the keyhole on the flat's doorknob; no sign of a forced entry. The small living room, dimly lit by a spotless elegant floor lamp, is cozy and organized. The beige leather sofa is pristine. The glass tea table has been wiped, and upon it Sherlock can see his own reflection. Even the heart-shaped red pillow on the sofa has been patted; though its loosening seams indicate that it is a few years old at least, it leans against the centre of the sofa, plump and fluffly like new. Molly has cleaned before she left.

Sherlock paces to a shelf by the door and looks thoughtfully at the dried flowers in the potpourri basket. The basket itself is flawlessly positioned in a most aesthetically-appealing corner, and the shelf is speckless. But there is dust on the edges of the dried flower petals.

Sherlock looks down at his feet, and ambles around the entire flat again, through her bathroom, her kitchenette, even venturing into her bedroom (he stands and stares for about five seconds, before he steps back out and slams the door shut). A while later he returns by the living room window sill, and stares in disdain at a clueless Toby who perches there still.

"It was a good try, if it weren't for _you_!" he groans furiously and swings a fist at the cat. Toby screeches and leaps, and swerves across the floor as Sherlock frantically steps after him and shouts abuse. "She cleaned all the tabletops except for the one in the kitchen, where she left out all her experimental equipment! Why do you think that is, _cat_?! Because she contacted Mycroft and had hopes that I might come here, and she put the apparatus out for _my_ use! There were two other things she didn't clean: the window sill and the floor. Why do you think _that_ is now, cat? It's because she figured the criminal came through her window, and hoped that I could find some footprints to analyze! But _you_, cat, your favourite place to lounge on just happens to be the window sill, and God knows where else you've been running around and rubbing my evidence onto with your stupid fur! How the _hell_ am I supposed to obtain the prints of the culprit now!?"

Toby shrieks and sprints from his assailant, from living room to kitchenette to bathroom, until, finally, the smart creature jumps at Molly's bedroom door handle. The door clicks open, and Toby slips in, leaving Sherlock staring angrily after him.

The consulting detective turns around and faces the kitchenette with a sigh. "Well, I suppose it wasn't all for nothing. Now I know that she's been threatened and watched, otherwise she wouldn't have done something nearly this convoluted. Like all other _Homo sapiens_ on the planet, she never liked to think beyond the bare minimum, after all."

He walks toward the sink. Before he confronted the cat, he had noticed a pink notebook by its edge, and now is the time to examine it. He seizes the notebook and glances at the garbage bin beside his feet. There is a pink lock and a small key inside, which clearly form a set with the notebook itself.

"What do you want to show me from this, Molly?" he mumbles and flips the notebook open to a bookmarked page, numbered page 34. It is some useless diary entry, dated February 2nd of last year, detailing how excited she was to buy her new cat friend named Toby. Sherlock skims impatiently through the effusive narrative and groans. The only insightful line in this entry states that she would take Toby with her on any vacation, which is an obvious hint that her current vacation is unforeseen. But Sherlock knew that long before he even boarded the plane in Reykjavik.

Sherlock flips roughly through the notebook. The first half of the book consists of Molly's diary entries, each page diligently numbered. The second half is apparently a collection of letters to a "Dear Antirealist", and it seems that Molly, at some point, gave up on numbering the pages.

The notebook doesn't seem to offer anything useful. Sherlock tosses it aside and sighs.

He pulls up the picture he furtively took of Molly's leave note on his phone screen and grumbles, "I am prepared to be very disappointed in you, Molly, if you don't even have anything useful to offer in _this_."

There _has _to be something peculiar about the existence of this note. Who in this age of flourishing technology, apart from schoolchildren, would request leave both in person and with a _handwritten_ note? In fact, Sherlock did notice something unusual in the note when he sat in Mike's office, and constantly pondered over it for hours, until he got a little... well, distracted by the group photo on Mike's desk.

The note is written mostly in print. Sherlock knows very well that Molly hardly ever wrote in print, and on top of that, the note is not _wholly_ in print.

"Dea_**r**_ Mike,

_**I **_am _**w**_ritin_**g**_ to re_**q**_u_**e**_s_**t **_a leave. After all that happene_**d**_ a few months ago and after tr_**y**_ing to _**j**_uggle my work and my unsteady _**e**_motion_**s**_, I think this is the t_**i**_me I mus_**t**_ make use of my a_**c**_cumulated _**ho**_lidays. It would me_**a**_n loads to me if you coul_**d**_ grant me tw_**o**_ months of _**b**_reak. This break will incl_**u**_de al_**l**_ the extra time I have worked for during the previous four years. I have just finished the project you have assigned me, and I hope this won't be too much of an inconvenience. Please let me know, and thank you very much in advance.

Sincerely,  
Molly H."

Twenty-three letters scatter throughout the note in cursive. An anagram? By this point Sherlock has already tried hundreds of combinations of "riwgqetdyjesitchoadobul" in a few different languages, but he couldn't obtain anything coherent.

Sherlock squints at the picture again. While in Mike's office, he noticed that these cursive letters did not resemble Molly's normal hand. Her natural writing is light and carefree, sometimes so faded that Sherlock could hardly read it. But these letters look rigid, dark, and emphasized, almost as if she tried to trace them from elsewhere -

"Oh! Of course! It requires another book to decode - a book Molly unlocked intentionally for me to read!"

Sherlock turns to the forgotten pink notebook and frantically flips through it. He smirks as he sees exaggerated depressions on certain letters in the pages that are evidently recent trace marks; he wonders how he missed them earlier. "So, you want me to find the _words_ from which you traced your letters. Not bad, Molly, genuinely not bad for an ordinary mind."

Slamming the notebook on the dining table, he turns and drags his luggage into the kitchenette. He throws its lid open and fumbles through his crumpled clothes for paper and pen.

Minutes later, after a while at work at the dining table, his fists pound suddenly on the wooden surface, sending a few Petri dishes beside him into the air. Toby, who regained enough courage to peek from Molly's bedroom, screeches and again retreats hastily into his fortress.

Sherlock groans and tears the decoded message to pieces. "Rain, in, what, green..." All were simple words that meant next-to-nothing, individually, strung together, or rearranged.

"I must be missing something," he spits contemptuously through his teeth as he shuffles absentmindedly through the pink pages of the notebook. "It can't be that difficult! This is Molly I'm dealing with here, and I'll be damned if I'm outwitted by _her_. Think and observe, Sherlock! What didn't you see?"

_Wait. _His mutterings and his motions suddenly cut to a stop when he comes to the unnumbered pages. The consulting detective's pupils suddenly dilate in knowledge, and, after recollecting from the moment of epiphany, he flips frantically back to earlier entries and gazes pensively at the page numbers.

These page numbers' ink colour doesn't always match the ink colours of Molly's entries.

They are _fresh_. And _all_ of Molly's trace marks lie within numbered pages.

Sherlock chuckles and lays the notebook by a new blank piece of paper. He rubs his fists in excitement. "Now the real decoding starts. 'Riwgqetdyjesitchoadobul'. What do you mean?"

The first letter, "_**r**_", is traced from page 9 of the notebook; the ninth letter of the diary entry on that page is an "**f**". The second letter, "_**I**_", is traced from page 15; the fifteenth letter of the writing on that page is - well, another "_**I**_". The third "_**w**_" is on page 19, corresponding to a "_**v**_" which is the nineteenth letter of the entry; and the following "_**g**_" on page 25 corresponds to an "_**e**_"... Sherlock's grin widens as the deciphering continues.

For a while, the kitchenette is silent except for the flipping of pages and the scratches of occasional scribbles. Toby gathers enough courage to tiptoe out again, and slowly inches his curious self towards the consulting detective's crossed feet. But before the cat can even come close to the foot of his chair, another dull slam sounds, and some more Petri dishes fly into the air and crash to the ground.

Toby is startled and stops advancing; he curls his long tail and blinks his green eyes at the stranger on the chair, now holding his mummy's notebook and staring at it as if it were a most intriguing new cat toy.

It takes Sherlock a few minutes to tear his wondrous gaze from the notebook and cast it toward the decoded message in front of him. Suddenly he turns to Toby and laughs.

The letters on his paper spell,

_"fIve thirTY IpsWicH kings X"_

* * *

-_Day 1._

"You keep an interesting diary, Dr. Hooper."

Molly gasps and drops her keys. She hastens to pick them up, nearly tripped by fright. As her figure straightens, she sees Guy Fawkes leaning leisurely against her sofa, her pink diary in his hand.

"Y-You shouldn't be reading - "

Guy Fawkes's smile seems to widen, as if it's possible. "Ah, but dear, it's your fault to have left it unlocked. I've skimmed through it; it's filled with the banalities of everyday life, I see, and a little bit of mystery. Who is this 'Dear Antirealist' you write to?"

"It's none of your business," Molly grips onto her keys tighter, feeling rage fill her chest as the jagged metals digs deeper into her palm.

"Gained some guts overnight now, have you?" Guy Fawkes sneers between cold chuckles and tosses the notebook onto the tea table. In a moment of angry courage, Molly seizes the notebook and runs into the kitchenette. Guy Fawkes watches with the smile as she places the book carefully by the sink.

"That's a strange place for you to put a private diary," he remarks. Molly turns to him and almost rebukes, but her eyes meet the two dark, hollow spaces of the mask, and suddenly all her courage is drained. She bites her lip and feels her body begin to tremble.

Guy Fawkes rises and moves slowly toward her. She lowers her gaze toward her feet to avoid the sight of the two ghastly black holes on his face, but his large, gloved hand violently lifts her chin and forces her to stare into his eyes.

"I told you, darling, that we are watching, and you, dear - you listened to me well. Very well, I think. You exceeded all my expectations."

The icy sensation that seeps through his glove chills her to the very bones. Molly tries to break away from his clutch, but fear has been weathering her strength; she cannot budge, and he squeezes her face tighter and laughs.

"I will now tell you one more thing, my sweet. _We also like to play games._"

* * *

_A/N: I am absolutely flabbergasted and honoured by all the attention that this story has received. Thank you. I hope this chapter did not disappoint, and as always I would love to hear an opinion, even if a short one, from you in a review :)._

_Also, I shamefully admit that KPerry's "Unconditionally" is now one of my new head-canon Molly songs. Even if it isn't even musically good._


	3. In Search

_-Day 2._

The blindfold fabric falls off, and beams of hostile brightness stab at Molly's eyes. She whimpers. When, many blinks later, her vision is finally acceptably clear, she sees that she is in a small interrogation room. No windows. Blank walls. White incandescent light. With the residual blur lingering in her eyes, she feels as if she has just been transported into a maddening asylum.

Guy Fawkes sits across from her, and, as always, is smiling.

"Unbind her," his slick voice instructs. It is not until another pair of hands tugs violently at the rope around her wrists that Molly registers another presence behind her. She turns her head in a moment of curiosity and confusion, and her body jolts in startle. It is another Guy Fawkes who smiles just as morbidly as his companion, as he slits Molly's binds loose with a clean, skilled slice.

Molly gasps feebly, and tries to rub her wrists with her numb fingers.

The Guy Fawkes Across gives the Guy Fawkes Behind a nod, and the Guy Fawkes Behind turns obediently and leaves, slamming the rusty iron door shut.

"Do you know why we brought you here, Dr. Molly Hooper?"

Molly's gaze - nearly an accusatory glare - lifts from her bruised wrists to the Guy Fawkes Across. She does not try to reply.

Guy Fawkes chuckles, and pushes a folder across the dusty tabletop between them. "Read this. Take your time, darling. You've got the whole morning."

Molly bites her lip and reaches with a trembling hand for the folder, keeping her suspicious stare on Guy Fawkes. "Oh, don't be shy now," Guy Fawkes purrs through the thin gap that is his mouth, inclining his head slightly to the right, clearly diverted. "You'll like it. Promise."

Molly slowly slips two fingers through the covers and fishes out the first piece of paper, doubt and trepidation in her eyes as she begins to read.

Silence. More silence. Guy Fawkes's smile seems to widen, and Molly's fear fades as she reads on.

She places the first page down and pulls out the second. Then the third. Then the fourth. Each page is read faster and with more attention than the last, and by the time she piles the pages together and reinserts them into the folder, she tenses and stares straight into the smile on the Guy Fawkes mask. There are tears in her eyes.

"Are these... real?"

Guy Fawkes scoffs. "Of course they are. That's why you're here. That's why _they're_ here."

Molly's lips part, but for a while no sound projects. When she finally manages to speak, her voice is cracking and wavering. "_Them_?"

Guy Fawkes leans forward and studies her bewilderment intently with his deep, dark holes of eyes. "Do you know, Dr. Hooper, that if it weren't for your interesting behaviour in your flat last night, I would now be giving you the choice of walking out of this room and leaving as you please?"

Molly breaks the disturbing eye contact and looks down at the colourful cover of the folder. Guy Fawkes chuckles contently and leans back, crossing his legs. "But of course, if you had the choice, you would choose to stay; you're different from most of _them. _Am I right?"

Molly digs her teeth deep into her lower lip, feeling the metallic taste of blood at the tip of her tongue. There is a long stillness, with nothing but Molly's agitated breaths filling the air. The silence ceases when Molly places a hand atop the folder and drags it closer. _Scratch._

"Let me read these again."

Guy Fawkes throws back his head and laughs.

"Yes, yes, Dr. Molly Hooper. You would choose to stay."

* * *

-Chapter 3-  
_In Search_

_-Day 3._

_'Mar. 27, 1730 KC to Ipswich, get info. -SH' -29 Mar., 2012. 19:24P.M._

_-Day 4._

_'Dr. H. Arendale from Capio Nightingale Hospital booked 15 tickets. -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 8:24A.M._

_'[Link] -M' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 8:30A.M.

_'[Link] -M' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 8:42A.M.

_'[Link] -M' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 8:51A.M.

_'[Link] -M' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 8:53A.M.

_'Shut up. I get the idea. On it. -SH' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 8:53A.M.

_'[Link] -M' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 8:54A.M.

_'[Link] [Link] [Link] -M' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 8:57A.M.

_'[Link] [Link] [Link] [Link] [Link] -M' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 8:59A.M.

_'SHUT UP. -SH' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 9:00A.M.

* * *

-_Day 4._

"Excuse me. I have an appointment with Dr. Bryan at ten o'clock this morning."

"I'm sorry; Dr. Bryan filed for an emergency leave three days ago. Did you not get a call from us informing you that your appointment has been cancelled?"

"Oh, no! I must've missed it. I was on a trip abroad. Thank you for letting me know!"

"No problem, sir, and we're truly very sorry. Would you like to reschedule?"

"I think I'd like to wait until he comes back first, if that's okay."

"Of course. Have a great day, sir."

...

"Excuse me. I'm Sigmund Hooper from FortéBio of the Pall Corporation. Dr. McDermon has contacted us recently, and expressed interest in purchasing our High Throughput Octet System. May I meet with him to discuss this business opportunity?"

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Hooper. Dr. McDermon has gone on leave. A very sudden family event has deprived us of his presence. Would you mind postponing the meeting until he returns?"

"That's unfortunate. I guess we'll have to. When do you suppose he'll return?"

"I'm not sure; he said that it's complicated. Should I leave a note in his office and ask him to contact you later?"

"You're too kind; please don't trouble yourself. I'll check back with him later."

...

...

...

"Excuse me. I'm looking for Dr. Arendale. I'm a soon-to-be Master's student and a great admirer of his work on characterizing the hypervariable region of the Hepatitis C virus. Could I... maybe have a word with him, if he's got a few moments?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but Dr. Arendale is unwell. He requested a sick leave four days ago, and we're not sure when he'll be back."

"Oh. Oh, that's terrible."

"Would you like to leave your name and phone number? We can leave your information on his desk for his reference when he returns."

"Oh, no, no, that's quite all right; wouldn't dream of troubling the Doc now. I'll come back later. I sure hope he feels better soon!"

* * *

The groceries have run out, and there is no one else to go get them.

Martha Hudson's green tote bag dangles loosely on her shoulder as she locks the door of 221B. She turns and takes a few steps, past Speedy's towards the supermarket, when a man across the street catches her eye.

A tall young boy, she remarks to herself. Thirty-something, probably. He stands immobile at the edge of the sidewalk and stares blankly at the door of her flat, and he...

Mrs. Hudson fishes her spectacles from her tote bag and puts them on. She squints and stretches her neck to see. The redheaded, freckled man seems very different from the sort of men she's accustomed to knowing, with a hunched back, an almost comical moustache, and a taste in attire that is atrociously informal for his age. But somehow...

Mrs. Hudson surveys the road a few times to ensure no cars are coming either way, and hobbles across the street. She grimaces; her hip has been getting worse lately.

The young man hardly notices her until she offers an enthusiastic "hullo". Startled, he turns to her and, upon meeting her friendly gaze, is genuinely embarrassed. "Hullo," his baritone voice resonates softly, with a little stutter.

Mrs. Hudson smiles, both at his flustered reply, and at her silly self for likening this man to somebody who couldn't have been more different. "Nice day, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he nods diffidently and looks away.

"You've been standing here and staring at my front door for a while," Mrs. Hudson points out with good humour, "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Oh, no, no," he waves his hands, trying to stretch his lips awkwardly into a grin. Mrs. Hudson is sure he is blushing. "I-I'm waiting for a friend. Sorry. My eyes go all over the place when I'm waiting. I didn't mean to - "

"Oh, don't apologize, dear," Mrs. Hudson laughs and gives him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "I was only a little worried for you; you seemed a little... troubled, and despite the sunshine, it's still a little cold. Glad to hear that nothing's wrong, dear. And next time you go out, I'd suggest at least one more layer. The climate's atrocious this year; to think they still babble on and on about 'global warming' on the news!"

The man timidly smiles. "Thank you, ma'am. You're too kind."

A black car pulls from the roadside to a stop in front of the man and the elderly lady. The man glances through the window and chuckles uneasily at Mrs. Hudson. "My friend's here now."

"That sure is good news," Mrs. Hudson heaves a sigh of relief, motioning a little friendly wave to the driver. "Go on and have fun then, young man. I'd best be off to the supermarket."

The man's eyelashes flicker uncertainly as he watches her turn and begin to hobble away. "... Would you like a ride, ma'am?"

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head and laughs. "Oh, no, thank you, dear. The supermarket's only a few minutes away."

* * *

"Sigmund" stands by the window and stares pensively at the darkening sky outside, tapping his feet impatiently against the carpet. When the door clicks and Mycroft Holmes enters with his ever-faithful umbrella at his side, "Sigmund" spins around and groans.

"This'll be the last time I ever comply with one of your ridiculous demands," Sherlock spits through his teeth and plops himself onto the most ornate chair in the room.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and locks the door behind him. "I'm sure this wish of yours will come true some day; it has failed to for long enough." He lays down his briefcase by the door and sits on the armchair opposite Sherlock, hanging the handle of his umbrella on the arm stump. He studies his brother with a pensive frown. "And quit complaining. I made an exception and agreed to pick you up on Baker Street. You even spoke with Mrs. Hudson, I heard. Very imprudent, I must say."

Sherlock scoffs and looks away. "Capio Nightingale Hospital is five minutes away from Baker Street. You know how I hate waiting. If I have to wait, I'd rather do so in a more friendly environment than in front of a hospital, thank you very much."

Mycroft pours some tea from the ready teapot on the table between them, and lets the subject drop. "You went to the hospitals and asked about all twenty-five on-leave pathologists on the list I sent you?"

"Understand this, Mycroft: I wouldn't have if I weren't 'dead', or if I had Internet to buy, with the fake ID you gave me,_ my own ticket to Ipswich_," Sherlock seethes, snatching his cup from the saucer and taking a big gulp. Luckily, Mycroft has not had the chance to heat the tea; it is only lukewarm.

"My, my, isn't it inconvenient being dead," Mycroft's lips curl into a smirk, though his eyes are unfazed. "You're ever so resentful, Sherlock. Don't forget that the phone I gave you is the only safe electronic device you'll ever touch in this city, and don't forget who it was that impulsively decided to play dress-up the moment he arrived in London. I did give you the option to live here under the name of the fake ID, but did you take it? You brought this awkward situation entirely upon yourself."

"Mycroft, Molly Hooper sent an _S.O.S. messag_e to you, yet you left her flat uninspected for _two_ days," Sherlock snaps irritably. "That's ridiculous and highly unprofessional. I'm only acting swiftly to compensate for your incompetence."

"I debugged her flat. Besides, no one has called in to report her disappearance. There's no way we can get a search warrant for her flat."

"Oh, you and your damnable officiality. It doesn't matter, Mycroft; _Molly never asks for help_!" Sherlock springs from his seat and paces about, hands in the air in exasperation. "The fact that she's gone out of the way to contact you using an ATM machine should've been enough for you to start an investigation immediately. She's competent enough to leave more than one clue, you know!"

Mycroft's eyes follow Sherlock's figure around the room, and a brow is raised. "I had other matters to attend to, Sherlock."

"Oh, certainly, like looking up the profiles and CVs of all the pathologists in this city who are on leave, when you could've found the culprit by acting quickly and saving the one," Sherlock rolls his eyes and sneers.

"Cut it out, Sherlock," Mycroft sets his teacup on the saucer and rises with a frown. "You should know very well by now that we're dealing with something big. A single culprit is not what we're after."

There is a pause, and Sherlock sardonically laughs. "As I suspected. Your interest was never in Molly's individual case."

"I don't see why it should be," Mycroft says simply, not withdrawing from Sherlock's accusative glare.

A short silence falls, and tension slowly brims the air.

"Do try to remember that she knows as much about my survival as you do," Sherlock begins, hissing his words through gritted teeth.

"And do try to remember that I, at the very least, deemed her disappearance important enough to call for your return." Mycroft fires tersely, in a tone that terminates the subject from further discussion. "Now, let's sit back down, have some tea, and discuss the missing pathologists, shall we?"

Sherlock reluctantly returns to the ornate chair and fishes a piece of paper from his jeans pocket. "Here's a list of all who filed for leave on the 27th of March. Of the twenty-five pathologists whose profiles you sent me, there're fourteen including Molly. Dr. Arendale, who was the holder of fifteen tickets on the March 27th 17:30 Ipswich train, filed his leave one day earlier on March 26th. That makes fifteen pathologists on a single train to Ipswich."

Mycroft takes Sherlock's list and browses pensively. "All top-notch from this city. This isn't to be taken lightly indeed. And Dr. Arendale - "

"- As much of a victim as all the others, obviously," Sherlocks interrupts impatiently, taking another sip of the now-cold tea. "As if the criminals would be silly enough to drop a real identity while purchasing train tickets for their hostages. Now, what interests me is why the criminals lumped all the tickets under a single name. Surely they know that a one-time purchase of fifteen train tickets might attract a bit of attention. They could easily have pressed some more pathologists into buying tickets, or even put the pathologists on different trains. But they did not. And by the way, Mycroft, make some new tea, for God's sake. This is hardly drinkable now."

Mycroft ignores the request for tea; his frown deepens, and his brows sink into a scowl as he ponders over the oddity which Sherlock mentioned. "This is a game to them."

"As much as I hate to agree with you, I believe it's quite so," Sherlock concurs dryly. "I imagine the criminals in this city like to play games a lot more, now that I'm 'dead' while Moriarty's influence lives."

Mycroft scans his brother warily, but Sherlock's eyes are closed, and the consulting detective seems perfectly indifferent on the surface. Mycroft sighs and retrieves a paper slip from an inner pocket of his suit. "Here's your ticket to Ipswich."

Sherlock jumps and instantly swipes the ticket from his hand, a satisfied smirk at his lips. "Ah! I have been waiting for this. Well, then, I shall get going immediately. You make use of that list and let me know anything that you find interesting; meanwhile I'm going to get Molly out of the mess."

"Don't get carried away," Mycroft warns, as he watches "Sigmund" throw on his jacket and struggle to stuff his feet into the All Stars. "By the way. Absolutely hideous disguise."

"Now that's something I wholeheartedly agree with," Sherlock already has one foot out of the door when he responds, but he pauses suddenly in mid-stride and turns. There is a small pause, as the consulting detective's jaw trembles, struggling to bring out an inquiry from the bottom of his heart.

"How's Mum?"

Mycroft cannot hold back a smile, and this time his eyes soften, too.

"Waiting eagerly for the day she could smack you in the head and scream abuse at your face."

* * *

When the painfully long whistle of the train finally subsides, "Sigmund" heaves a sigh of relief and looks at his watch. Five thirty-two. The train is quite on time.

Sherlock stares outside the window for an astonishing total of five minutes, before his boredom begins to tickle his nerves. It takes him five more minutes to observe and deduce everyone in sight. One businessman: keeps a dog, just returned from a trip to Cuba. One alcoholic waitress: just lost her job. One physics teacher: pedophile, child porn addict. One teenage couple: eloping; boy only playing with girl.

Sherlock sinks lower on his seat and softly groans. Boring.

"What do you need?"

Sherlock jolts and turns to the source of the soft voice. It is only a train personnel attending to another passenger. Of course. He berates himself for reacting at all, and his gaze drops to the table in front of him, where he lay down Molly's pink notebook when he boarded the train.

He reaches his fingers toward the cover, and feels the smooth surface of the leather beneath his touch. Why did he decide to bring this book along, when he was determined to pack minimal belongings in order to not arouse Mrs. Crawford's suspicions? Sherlock carefully inspects the worn edges of the notebook and frowns. It was a hunch against reason, but he gave in to it. And now that he thinks back to his decision, he isn't entirely certain why he gave in.

Molly. Molly Hooper. Quite possibly the single person who has surprised him the most before his fall. And she has surprised him again.

Sherlock opens the notebook. His decoded message is wedged between two pages, and he reads its content again. "_fIve thirTY IpsWicH kings X._" Not bad. Genuinely not bad. She's kept him busy on her clues for nearly an hour, and she was under constant danger and threat when she devised them. Sherlock pushes his hypothetical, unsettling imaginations of her current situation to the back of his mind, and flips once more through the sheets.

In all honesty, Sherlock Holmes does not enjoy being surprised. To him, surprise is merely an end result of poor judgment, and poor judgment is not to be tolerated for a mind as trained as his. Sometimes he would treat surprise with denial, much as how he treats all traces of weakening sentiments he senses within. But... his fingers navigate through the pages languidly, and he heaves a quiet sigh.

"_fIve thirTY IpsWicH kings X_".

Double withdrawals. 505 pounds.

_"I don't count."_

_"What do you need?"_

Sherlock Holmes knows that Molly Hooper is the most outstanding pathologist in Bart's, who has published two papers in _Cell_ and three more in _Nature_. He knows that she's timid, easily amused, a lousy conversationalist, and absolutely terrible at making jokes. He knows that she's insistent on lab safety, has slight obsessive-compulsive disorder, and represses her urge to nag at him for disobeying the rules whenever he's in the lab. He knows that, despite loving her job more than anything, she gets distracted often, and sketches little cartoon caricatures on her white board. He knows the most trifling details about her pet peeves and her strange habits, and he even knows about her family members from the few times he's made the effort to deduce her in-depth. But it was not until recently that Sherlock Holmes realized: he knows next-to-nothing about the complexity of Molly Hooper's _mind_.

And _that_, he could not deny, is _rotten _judgment.

Sherlock cups his left hand around the notebook's spine, and lifts it closer into view. Is this book a puzzle? Maybe the desire to solve it is what prompted him to bring it along on this trip. He is baffled still, by the moment she deduced him in the morgue, and even more so by what she has done in the past few days. Maybe he finally wants an answer now, once and for all.

Sherlock's hand motions pause at the first entry written in letter form, and, with a deep breath, he begins to read.

_-D-A-_

_06 Apr., 2011_

_Dear Antirealist,_

_Do you know that you're an anti-realist? Of course you don't, because your belief is so ingrained in you. You would think of your belief as no less than the single truth in the world, and you would never know that there are other options. You wouldn't know that your belief has a name, either; why would it need a name other than "righteousness", when it's the single mindset that dominates your existence? _

_You probably shun others who don't think like you do, because, well, you can be a bit of an extremist sometimes, can't you? Would you care at all about the methods of those who don't observe the world like you? I can hardly imagine it._

_Do I wish to be like you? Sometimes, perhaps. I should definitely like to have a bit of common language with you. But, in the end, I know I will never quite be on your level. I will never be an anti-realist, because I'm the polar opposite. I'm a realist and, dear antirealist, I hardly care if you scorn. I'm reconciled, and I'm proud of being a realist._

_Wait. Will you scorn? Perhaps not, actually, because you wouldn't know what I'm talking about. You would hardly think the philosophy of science is useful for your arts._

_Will it help if I give you some brief definitions?_

_Scientific realism states: scientific entities, whether observable or unobservable, should be construed as existent, as literally having truth values._

_Scientific anti-realism states: unobservable scientific entities should be classified as unreal and non-existent._

_Well, what do you think, antirealist? Are you going to scorn me now for being a realist, or laugh at me for mentioning scientific philosophy at all?_

_It's six. Best be off to work. Write to you later, dear antirealist!_

_Sincerely,_

_A Hopeless Realist_

_-D-A-_

What in the world does all that mean? Sherlock's eyebrows knot in befuddlement as he reaches the last word. Is this "dear antirealist" an actual, material existence, or simply a figment of Molly's imagination? If the latter, then why did she have to define the philosophical terms to an entity she imagined? Oftentimes, human imagination strives for perfection; it hardly seems logical that she would imagine an anti-realist who doesn't even know the existence or the meaning of his own belief, which, in Sherlock's opinion, is quite a silly flaw.

And this first letter... Sherlock flips hastily back to earlier entries. No connections whatsoever to her ordinary diary. The last non-letter-form diary was written on the 2nd of April, 2011, with a brief mention of Jim from I.T. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he sees the name, and flicks the pages back to the "Dear Antirealist" letters.

Well, he would certainly have to read more than one entry to solve the puzzle.

_Bleep._

Sherlock groans and whips out his phone. What does Mycroft want _now_?

_'Arendale dead Ipswich Wolsey's Gate. -M' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 17:59P.M.

Sherlock's features drop. He slaps the notebook shut and tosses it back onto the table. He starts to type a reply, but before he could press "Send", another beep sounds, and a new text bubble pops up.

_'Hooper blog updated. -M' __-30 Mar._, 2012. 18:00P.M.

Sherlock's gaze sways between the two lines of text, and his frown deepens.

* * *

_A/N: In this story, Sherlock's fall happened on the episode air date (Jan. 2012). All other events refer to dates on BBC official blogs. So, there's going to be a conflict between the fall date in my story and the fall date in John's blog (some time in June). I hope this isn't too much of a problem._

_A review now would be really lovely :)! Tear me apart! Tear the story apart! I loves it :)._


	4. Impeccably Clean

-_Day 4._

College Street. Ipswich waterfront. Like the rest of the town, a sort of harmonious serenity often brims the air, along with a fragrance of blooming spring flowers. St. Paul's Church stands tall; the old Wolsey's Gate erects faithfully by its side. During dusks where the falling sun is kind enough to grace them with her presence, the church and the Gate are transformed masterfully into a dream-like impressionist artwork by gentle strokes from the soft, orange paintbrush of skylight.

Something about the painting is off this afternoon, though. Most who stroll by the ancient, sixteenth-century Gate pinch their noses and quicken their steps away. There is a strange, metallic odour seeping through the crevices of the wooden structure, one that disturbs all who perceive it. Several nosy passer-bys yank curiously at the little knob on the wooden gate to no avail. They soon tire of it and walk away, after figuring that they probably don't want to know what the smell is after all.

Some of such walkers are within earshot, and others not so much, when the heart-wrenching scream pierces the air and shatters the peace of Ipswich.

* * *

When Dr. Barbara Bateson arrives at the scene, she sees David Green from Suffolk Constabulary, a new constable straight from military college, comforting a weeping Mr. Guillaume Dubois. Mr. Dubois has just been resuscitated, after having collapsed by the side-gate of St. Paul's Church during a fervent attempt to flee from the horrific sight of the body.

"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu," the white-haired Frenchman sobs into his palms and repeats his call for deity like a broken recorder.

"It's all right now." Green rubs the man's back and whispers softly, handing him new tissues as he soaks up the old ones with tears. "Would you like to go with me into the church and lie down, Mr. Dubois?"

Mr. Dubois nods feebly and tries to stand up, but his legs give in and he collapses on his knees again. Green hastens to his aid and soothes him some more.

Bateson walks with a frown to Sergeant Evan Daniels, who has been observing Green and Mr. Dubois for a while. "So this old man must be Dubois."

"Obviously," is the cross response from Daniels. "Janitor of the church. Found the body 'bout twenty minutes ago."

"I know that. I don't need anything beyond a simple confirmation." Bateson represses her temper at his rudeness and demands, "You're on my team, Daniels; you should be analyzing the crime scene. What the bloody hell are you doing out here with Green? It's _his _first time at a crime scene, and we're going easy on _him_, not _you_."

Mortification clouds Daniels's grumpy face. "I'm... showing care for our witness."

"Pure bollocks," Bateson hisses belligerently at him. "I don't care if it's the most gruesome crime Ipswich has ever seen. Grow a backbone and get back to the crime scene within the next ten minutes, or you're getting a salary deduction."

Daniels grumbles and turns his heels toward the Gate, and nudges himself a few tiny steps forward, before turning around as if he's forgotten something. "Oh, yeah, DI Franklin received a call from London. Apparently our victim was under watch of the Secret Services, and they're sending an agent our way to inspect the case."

Bateson rolls her eyes. "Simply tragic. I can imagine the snobbishness in such an agent already, and maybe even incompetence; a man who works so closely with the government has to have such traits for the amount of money he gets paid. Where's DI Franklin? I might want to ask him a little more about this after I inspect the crime scene."

"He drove to the train station to pick up the agent."

"What?" Bateson throws her hands in the air in exasperation. "For God's sake! The case was just reported twenty minutes ago! It'd take at least two hours for the agent to get here from London! And he _drove_? The station is bloody ten minutes away on foot!"

Daniels makes no effort to respond, but the meaning in his smug smirk is clear: _I am not the only one chickening out._

Bateson slaps the man's shoulder and groans. "Yes, you're more competent than DI Franklin. Now get your behind back to the crime scene with me or I'll - "

"Erm, could one of you help me with Mr. Dubois?" Green's voice interrupts, and the two forensic investigators turn to his embarrassed, good-natured countenance. "He's really weak from shock, and a bit, well, heavier than I thought he would be."

"I'm right on it, David," Daniels exclaims all too gladly and rushes to the shaken witness's side. Bateson growls in frustration and spins around, walking swiftly toward the crime scene alone.

Her firm steps pause as she catches her first glimpse.

Wow. This sure is something.

* * *

-Chapter 4-  
_Impeccably Clean_

-_Day 4._

"Agent Hooper. I'm Detective Inspector Franklin. Nice to meet you."

The heel of Sherlock's left foot barely scrapes the ground of the platform, when a middle-aged man, clad in a suit that barely contains his gigantic beer belly, approaches him and nods, flashing a badge clasped by his round fingers. Sherlock shakes Franklin's greasy hand and takes a single glance at his dark, curled moustache, and the consulting detective swallows, with difficulty, his urge to remark on Franklin's disappointing career and his wife's terrible culinary skills. "Greetings, Detective Inspector Franklin," he chooses to say simply, as his mind grumbles to himself: _it sure is inconvenient being dead_.

Franklin eyes Sherlock's tacky sweater and casual footwear with skepticism, and his tone betrays discontent and mistrust as he speaks next. "I was told by my London superiors that they are sending a very capable agent my way, Agent Hooper."

"Sigmund Hooper" straightens his glasses and frowns. "I suppose your London superiors have not told you, then, that they have interrupted a holiday familial visit of that very capable agent, who happened to be travelling this way when they first received news of the crime. Take me to the crime scene and let's not waste any more time, Detective Inspector. I should like to get this done as quickly as possible."

Franklin turns around and leads him away without a word. Sherlock could hear his quiet growls.

Who could blame him? It's probably the first time a Londoner under Secret Service's watch has ever been murdered in his division. Sherlock is certain that Franklin, much like himself, Lestrade, and the other officers of Scotland Yard, isn't too anxious to associate with Mycroft's minions.

They walk silently to Franklin's old, shabby car. Sherlock opens the door and, on seeing... _questionable_ wrinkle patterns in the leather seat before him, scowls and scoots uncomfortably to the seat on the far side. Franklin eyes him strangely and starts up the car.

Sherlock squirms on his seat for a gruelling few minutes before they arrive at their destination. The detective inspector really couldn't have _walked_?

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he exits the car and inspects the Gate, the only remnant of Thomas Wolsey's substantial college built in the sixteenth century. By itself, it seems grandiose and antique, its lone wooden surface framed by an impressively symmetrical structure constructed from irregularly arranged red bricks of the distant past. The Gate, however, is dwarfed by the tower of St. Paul's Church, which sits directly to its left; in the dark of the night, the silhouette of the tower is almost formidable.

"The crime scene is, well, _inside_," Franklin points out, after parallel-parking the car absolutely terribly on the roadside. "We'll have to go through the grounds of St. Paul's Church to get to it. The Gate... well, it won't open."

Sherlock nods and follows Franklin through a side gate of the church that leads into the yard and behind the aloof Wolsey's Gate. A woman working in forensics intercepts them, and demands that they wear disinfected protective clothing. Sherlock is about to refuse vehemently, until he remembers that he is currently not Sherlock Holmes but Agent Sigmund Hooper from Secret Services. With an exasperated sigh, he complies.

He almost smiles the moment he steps into the view. This is almost too good.

Arendale has been taped onto the shut wooden Gate, his arms stretched roughly in the directions of the two top corners, his legs taped together perpendicularly to the ground. The man's hands dangle loosely from the pieces of duct tape that holds him in place, and his head is wedged awkwardly under the wooden door-bar near the top of the Gate.

_Crucified on a door_, Sherlock remarks darkly to himself as he scowls and inspects the strangely-positioned body further. The neck is obviously broken; fortunately, the ashen face is still recognizable. Sherlock pulls up Arendale's profile on his phone and compares the face to the picture. Definitely the same man.

He stares pensively into the complexion of the man and begins to deduce, when, suddenly, a chilling imagination of a similarly crucified Molly crosses his mind. He shudders and inhales sharply in distaste.

Franklin has been observing him closely and, at such a movement, scoffs. "Are you _scared_, Agent Hooper?"

Sherlock's temper flares. It is with difficulty that he represses the urge to fire back with an attack at Franklin's... _questionable _night-time activities which he's deduced from the state of his car seat. "No, Detective Inspector. I've been reminded of something _much_ more frightening which you can never imagine. Well, what has your little forensic team found?"

Ignoring the hostile glares from the forensic team, Sherlock steps forward and begins to examine Arendale's bloodied shirt. Franklin follows him with an exasperated groan, and tries to restrain him with a hasty grab at his arm. "That, I believe, is our business. You've been sent here to confirm Arendale's identity, and you'd damn best stick with that."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and replies, his voice dripping with scorn, "Please. You honestly think my superiors would've sent me here for a simple identity confirmation that could've been obtained easily from his wallet or his family members? We've been keeping a close watch on him. We're interested not just in who he is, but _how he died_. I find it intriguing that I need to inform you of that at all." _Somebody who could top Anderson in idiocy; I've never before thought that possible_.

Franklin, apparently, is not only not very bright, but also easily intimidated. The man's large face reddens, and he twirls nervously at his moustache and looks uncertainly at his forensic team. "Erm... Bateson?"

The lady who forced Sherlock into protective gear steps up, not bothering to conceal her displeasure. "Detective Inspector. Agent Hooper. It is strongly suspected that the victim died from a trauma at the side of the head, causing severe subarachnoid hemorrhage. However, I have checked the crime scene eight times; there is no blood anywhere, save the blood on his shirt."

"No blood on the wooden gate either?" Franklin intervenes as he grabs a notebook from his fat pocket and starts jotting down notes. Sherlock gives him a glance of disgust; evidently, Franklin has been wasting time waiting for him at the train station, instead of hovering over the crime scene since the body was first discovered.

"No," Bateson rolls her eyes, apparently in agreement with Sherlock's silent distaste. "Clearly, the murderer did not kill him here. The body was transferred from elsewhere."

"Right," Franklin says with a nod, "We should tell the search squad to begin scouring for possible initial crime scenes in this city - "

"Oh, please don't bother," Sherlock can hold his frustrations no longer, and points at the body's crumpled shirt with a sigh. "Evidently, the victim was not murdered in Ipswich."

Bateson's gaze at Sherlock morphs from one of indifference to one of surprise.

"Excuse me?" Franklin exclaims as he curls his moustache with a trembling hand, "Agent Hooper, I believe that _I _am the most competent detective inspector here - "

" - Then I trust you ought to already have noticed the state of his shirt," Sherlock cuts him off flatly and extends a dramatic hand motion at the body. "Enlighten me, _my competent Detective Inspector_."

Franklin straightens his collars, clears his throat, and whips out a magnifying glass from his pocket. He hovers the glassware over the shirt for minutes.

"Well, his shirt is of the brand Hugo Boss. Authentic, too, it seems. We can conclude that he's a relatively wealthy man, which is to be expected for a pathologist of his calibre. There is blood spilled over the left half of the shirt, and the stain is continuous with the wound on the side of his head which killed him. As Bateson pointed out, he must've died from subarachnoid hemorrhage caused by a ruptured posterior cerebral artery - "

"Middle meningeal artery," Bateson corrects and doesn't bother concealing her mortification. Franklin coughs uneasily. "Yes, middle - exactly that. Given his wealth, I must conclude that this is a robbing attempt gone wrong. No wallet on him, I presume; the murderer, while struggling to rob our victim, accidentally killed him - "

"And instead of fleeing the scene immediately with what he came for, the robber risked being publicly seen and took the trouble of transporting the body all the way here - from out of town, I might add - only to tape it up neatly for the public to find. Makes perfect sense." Sherlock derides with a sardonic smirk.

"Also, DI Franklin, we _did_ find his wallet. It's in his pocket. All the cash is inside." Bateson adds mercilessly, her normally monotonic voice repressing a giggle. Several of her team members sense the abnormality in her voice and glance at her, intrigued.

Franklin's round face turns into a large purple beet. "Well, if _you're_ so clever, Agent Hooper, why don't you share your _professional _opinion with us?"

Sherlock takes the offer only too gladly, as he leans towards the victim's shirt and sniffs. "Look at the way his shirt wrinkles, not just on the bloodstained side, but on the clean side as well. It's acceptably dry now, but it's certainly been wet in the past; I'd say four or five hours ago. The shirt smells nothing like the Ipswich waterfront, the scent of which I unwillingly indulged on while Detective Inspector was driving me here; nor does the shirt smell of chlorine. The wetness was therefore not from the river, nor was it from a pool. Where can it possibly be from? Rain. Has it rained in Ipswich this afternoon? From the humidity in the air and the state of the ground, I would deduce not. Moreover, there's a distinct scent of tobacco I spy, and it's of a different type than what they normally use here in the factories of Ipswich. From the states of his fingers and his teeth, I'd say he's not a smoker. The only reason for his shirt to smell of this strain of tobacco would be that he's been to a factory which isn't in Ipswich. All such details considered, he did not die in this town, and I strongly suggest you, Detective Inspector, to spare yourself the effort of calling together a search squad."

Franklin scratches his head in confusion, while Bateson's eyes shine brighter with every moment passed. "But how do you know that the scent wasn't from the murderer? Maybe the killer liked to chew tobacco."

Sherlock smirks. "Of course, you people wouldn't know this. This particular type of hybrid tobacco, Y1, is extremely high in nicotine content and was a subject of controversy in the 1990s. It was banned from the market at the turn of the century, and now, only a few factories across England still store some of it. Besides, the scent on the victim's shirt is quite strong. He wouldn't have been able to retain so much of it, if it came only from a chewing murderer."

"And you figured out the exact strain of tobacco simply by smelling it," Bateson says incredulously, making a statement more than asking a question.

Sherlock shurgs nonchalantly, "Agents of the Secret Services are trained to do certain things; we don't get paid a ridiculous salary for nothing." _I'm giving Mycroft's people way too much credit_, he remarks disgustedly to himself. "I suggest Detective Inspector Franklin to start researching which factories still store the Y1 tobacco, and deduce about the initial crime scene from there. Now, what else have you discovered in _this_ crime scene?"

"The victim has been dead for approximately five hours, but we're not sure when the body was transported here, because, unfortunately, this ground is not under surveillance," before Franklin could intervene with an angry shout, Bateson swiftly answers as she leafs through her notebook. "Whoever taped the body here didn't climb through. Dust lines over the brick walls haven't been disturbed recently. There was no service in the church today, and the grounds were locked. There have been no signs of forced entry, nor have we detected any picking attempts at the lock. The janitor, Mr. Guillaume Dubois, is the only one who has the keys, and he was also the one who discovered the body at 5:45P.M. The last time he checked these grounds was at 9:00 in the morning. Also, there's one curious thing," she pauses and glances uncertainly at "Agent Hooper", who has begun absentmindedly probing at the victim's pants pockets.

"Go on, I'm listening," Sherlock urges impatiently with a dismissive wave of his right hand, as his left hand feels the wallet and the keys inside.

Bateson clears her throat. "The crime scene is impeccably clean, and there are only two sets of footprints that came from Mr. Dubois, from the two times he checked on the Gate. He has cataracts and had to closely approach the body before he fully understood what was happening. No blood, no witnesses, no footprints save those of the discoverer of the body. An impossible crime, I believe."

"Yes, I should get to those footprints now, shouldn't I?" Sherlock drops the wallet back into the pocket and spins around. Bateson points to a taped area to his right, and Sherlock crouches and stares skeptically at the isolated, faint depressions on the soiled ground.

His expression drops into an angry frown. "Where's this Mr. Dubois? I hope you've been keeping a very close eye on him."

"Green - one of our new recruits - took him into the church. The poor old man was in shock and couldn't say a word."

"'In shock,'" Sherlock repeats incredulously, his sharp gaze fixated on Bateson's countenance. The forensic investigator hesitates and stutters, "Yes, in shock."

The consulting detective snorts and steps away from the body, stripping his gloves and tossing them into a garbage bag nearby. "You've all been fooled by sentiment. I'd say you forget about the shock and interrogate the man. You'll find it very useful."

Bateson is a bright woman, and it takes her no more than a second to realize what he means. "You can't seriously be suggesting that - "

"Of _course_ that's what I'm suggesting," Sherlock rips the protective coat from his body and stuffs it away as waste, too. "Look at his prints. The freshest ones from this afternoon pointing in the direction of the Gate are much farther apart than the ones from presumably when he inspected the grounds this morning. This means that he was taking larger strides than usual this afternoon. Now look at the footprints that are turned away from the Gate in a run. They're a good two millimetres thinner than the ones from when he approached the Gate in large strides. He was carrying something fairly heavy when he walked towards the Gate, and he abandoned it before running away. What could it be other than the body itself? There is no such thing as an impossible crime. Locks can only be opened flawlessly by someone who has the key - _oh._"

A realization suddenly dawns on Sherlock, and for a moment he stands, stunned, staring at the church tower in front of him as if he were struck by lightning.

_Oh, dear, God._

The consulting detective whips out his phone from his pocket and begins frantically texting London.

Franklin calls in vain for his response, and Bateson, after discerning that "Agent Hooper" has finished speaking, turns hastily to Daniels and whispers harshly, "Green is looking after Dubois in the church, yes?"

Daniels, who started collecting blood samples on the body after Sherlock left its side, suddenly catches the meaning in all of the previous verbal exchange and, in a moment of trepidation, slits his finger slightly with the bloodied scalpel in his trembling hand. "Oh, _Jesus. _Dubois said that he wanted to go into his room to rest and have some privacy. We let him. Green's standing guard at his door and - "

His speech is cut off when a scream from the church slices across the air.

Having finished his text, Sherlock is wakened rudely from his daze, and without further hesitation, he bolts toward the church. The rest of the Suffolk Constabulary forces follow.

They barge into the chapel, turn a few corners, run up a flight of stairs, and find the young Constable David Green standing in front of a shabby iron door, face ashen, fingers tremoring as he points them weakly at the dirty small windows atop the door.

Sherlock throws the door open, and all behind him gasp.

Mr. Guillaume Dubois hangs from a rope fixed to the ceiling, his nearly opaque, diseased eyeballs bulged from strangulation, his mouth twisted into an almost inhumanly crooked smile.

A Guy Fawkes mask lies ominously on the floor, beside the chair he has kicked aside, straight below his dangling feet.

* * *

_-Day 3._

"Chief. There has been... disruptions in our surveillance system in the homes of some of our... friends."

Molly sits up from her slouched position on her shabby bed and listens intently, pressing her ear tightly onto the thin wall.

"Has there?" The slick voice speaks, one she knows only too well by now. "It doesn't matter. Our friends are already here, anyway. Some of them have chosen to... _leave_, but we know that they won't be going back home, don't we?"

Molly hugs her pillow and shivers.

"Yes, but Chief, I do think we should be a bit more cautious with this. We might've gotten some difficult people sniffing our tracks."

"Be more cautious? What for? You know that we will win this no matter what. Let them do what they want for now. Let the game begin."

"...Understood, Chief."

The conversation in the adjacent room ceases. Molly turns around and bites her thumb nail. Their surveillance system on her home has been disrupted; that is a good sign. Did Mycroft do this? Was it Mycroft's hirelings? Did Mycroft notify _him_? Did _he _actually...

She inhales sharply and tries to repress her racing heartbeats as she thinks of his name.

She surveys the plain room she is in, and hopelessly sighs. What more can she do now? She doesn't even know where she is. Besides, she's done her best to communicate. If he... if he truly came back, he'd see the hints she left, and he'd understand it, because he's Sherlock. If he didn't come back... then somebody else must've seen her hints too, and Mycroft, Mycroft just might...

The data and diagrams she read yesterday in the interrogation room flash in her mind, and her body quivers in a mixture of strange excitement and absolute terror.

No. The clues in her flat aren't enough. She needs to tell him more, tell _them_ more, tell more to whoever it is that has begun meddling in the plot of the Guy Fawkeses who hold her hostage.

A terrible scheme from which she doesn't exactly want to escape.

A click from the door frightens her into a jolt. Guy Fawkes the Chief walks in leisurely, his smile morbidly wide as usual. "Good morning, darling Dr. Hooper. We did say we'd reward you today for being so... _docile_ yesterday and agreeing to stay. So, what reward would you like?"

Molly takes a deep breath and stands from her bed. "I have a request."

* * *

_A/N: As always, reviews are loved, concrit is worshipped, and Britpicks, particularly if you're from Ipswich, are showered with sloppy kisses._

_This was supposed to be up yesterday, but I got distracted and wrote a little angsty piece called "__**Final Mercy**__". I'd love it if you could spare a few moments to give that a try, too. :)_


	5. Dancing Molly

_A/N: Let me take a moment to be smug ;). It seems that I've successfully disguised my furtive hints last chapter from all of you. Behold! The beginning of this chapter might actually surprise you. Maybe. *rubs hands together*_

_Hate my smugness? Then please shower me with speculations in your reviews :)! Or tell me how horrible I am at this because you totally saw all my new twists coming ;). I always love concrit. Plus, your thoughts would give me more brain-fuel to update sooner (not-so-subtle wink)!_

_Also guys, I'm determined to crank the whole story out before Series 3 shreds it to pieces. Did y'all see that ring on Molly's finger in the promo photos? Any thoughts you'd like to share? :)_

* * *

_"Locks can only be opened flawlessly by someone who has the key."_

_-Day 4._

The lights are off in Molly Hooper's flat; her "cousin" has gone on a "night-time tour of the capital of England". No one should be home. Consequently, no one should hear the soft rustles in the flat, or see the occasional slither of a slim shadow atop the floral wallpaper.

A pair of furtive hands flips open the buckles of "Sigmund Hooper's" suitcase. Slender, trembling fingers sift through the garments within and fumbles in pockets, searching for any questionable written traces that may shed more light on "Sigmund's" hidden intentions.

_Crash!_

Suddenly, the feeble wooden door of the flat flings open, and in a second, the light in the living room flicks on. Exposed and stung by the abrupt brightness, the woman yelps and rubs hastily at her eyes. In a flash, she is surrounded by a squad of men in suits, and held still in the centre of the living room at gunpoint. "Sigmund Hooper's" suitcase lies open by her feet, a few colourful shirts sprawled over its edges.

The leader of the men pulls out a badge from his pocket with his free hand, waving it in the woman's face as he speaks. His tone is impassive and cold as ice.

"Clara Crawford. There is someone who would like to speak with you."

Mrs. Crawford whimpers and buries her forlorn face in her trembling hands.

* * *

-Chapter 5-  
_Dancing Molly_

-_Day 5_

_'Caught C. in the act. Need to talk. -M' -31 Mar., 2012. 0:21A.M._

_'In 10 minutes. -SH' -31 Mar., 2012. 0:21A.M._

* * *

The floor of the lavatory vibrates steadily as the train quietly rumbles. Sherlock crouches atop a shut toilet seat, his features crumpled in annoyance and disgust as he whispers into his mobile phone. "Mycroft, Ipswich and Arendale's body were the beginning of the criminals' breadcrumb trail, and _of course _I had to follow it _swiftly _in order to obtain any useful information! Can you imagine the amount of evidence I would've missed if I hadn't got to the body in time, and let that idiot Franklin declare the case a robbery gone wrong? Don't try to shift all the dirty blame of forgetting about Crawford on me. None of us even considered that it was she who let the kidnapper in; we all thought he came through the window, including Molly herself!"

"_I'm most certainly not trying to blame_ _you, for I also haven't foreseen Crawford's involvement,_" declares Mycroft's impatient voice on the other end. "_But it is undeniable that you have been unacceptably neglectful. You ought to have at least suspected Crawford, having spoken with her and been to Miss Hooper's flat._"

"It's the cat's fault," Sherlock grumbles with a roll of his eyes. "Molly's stupid cat constantly perched on the window sill. I assumed it had wiped the ledge clean with its unnecessarily long fur. If it weren't for that, I wouldn't have left London without investigating Crawford."

A sigh projects through the phone. "_Sherlock, you would've left London without consulting_ me_ at all if you could've helped it._"

Sherlock tries to ignore the truth in the statement, though he cannot help but groan.

"_Are you certain that you wish to return to London?_" Mycroft diverts the subject, after he's certain that there would be no reply. "_It might be more sensible to stay and investigate in Ipswich - _"

"What do you want me to do there? Wait for the autopsy report which would take weeks to compile and probably offer no extra insight?" Sherlock snorts dismissively. "I'm on the train back, Mycroft; there's no stopping me. Besides, with Dubois's suicide, all chances of obtaining further clues at the Wolsey Gate have been obliterated."

A rude knock on the lavatory's door cuts him off, and he yells apologetically with a strained, high-pitched voice, "Sorry, my stomach really - oh Jesus - stupid diarrhea - this might take a while more!"

"_Was Dubois the murderer?_" Mycroft is perhaps the only man on the planet who could respond to his brother's sudden, ridiculous outbursts without with the slightest hint of amusement.

Sherlock frowns. "He was certainly the one who taped Arendale's body to the Gate, but he was not the murderer. His cataracts were severe, and I reckon he's been nearly blind for the past year at least. Arendale was killed with a single clean blow to the side of his head that fractured his temporal bone and lesioned his middle meningeal artery. A man with Dubois's vision couldn't have done it without initiating a violent scuffle, but Arendale's attire was relatively tidy. Dubois - I doubt that's his real name - was a smart accomplice, too. The scene was flawlessly tidied up. He'd even cleared out all his belongings save a funny mask which has been wiped clean; I imagine it's some sort of symbol for his organization. There were no useful clues I could find in his room, in which he apparently lived during his career in the church. My only trail to go on, it seems, consists of factories that still store Y1 tobacco. I figured I'd start with investigating the one in London. Besides, it was raining when I got on the train in the afternoon, and Arendale's body has been in the rain."

"_Got a photo of Dubois? I could get someone in Ipswich to look into his background._"

"Of his body, yes. Snagged one with the phone when forensics weren't looking." Sherlock pauses, and another thought catches his mind. "Speaking of photos, isn't it about time you texted me a screenshot of Molly's updated blog? I've been waiting all night."

There is a short hesitation on the other end. "_Relax. You're on the way back, aren't you? It'd be safer, I imagine, for you to view the blog on Crawford's computer later; my agents have left her keys on the tea-table in Miss Hooper's flat. I think you'll discover quite a few secrets in Crawford's computer. Besides, the criminals aren't yet aware that we have Crawford. We have a head start._"

Sherlock recalls the gruesome crucification of Arendale, and is instantly certain that the last thing he could do right now is to relax. He cuts off Mycroft with a loud grunt and abruptly hangs up.

"And he _still_ has the gall to assume that I've been distracted by sentiment," he breathes angrily, as he gives his phone screen a piercing glare and jumps off the toilet.

However, without useful clues on the Arendale case to muse on, the consulting detective cannot stop his mind from wandering to places as he returns to his seat and taps his finger idly on the table before him.

Mrs. Hudson's hip seemed quite a bit worse; he needs to somehow maneuvre her into a hospital for a good examination, if he has time after finishing the case. At least she seemed fine otherwise. Pity he didn't see John as well when he waited on Baker Street. John was probably watching crap telly in the flat. Or maybe he went on yet another date with that scrawny lecturer in the University of London. Sherlock would rather prefer John to have been watching crap telly than going on a date. The thought that he is occupied with an intricate case that requires investigation on multiple ends while his valuable partner is squandering precious time with some unimportant woman is beyond infuriating.

God, if only John were here.

God, having to sit on a train and simply wait is so unbelievably _boring_!

Sherlock rubs his head frantically and thrusts himself back on his seat with an exasperated growl, earning a few questioning glares from dozing passengers around him. "Sigmund" glances around and nods apologetically, until a light slump sounds beside him.

Molly's notebook has fallen from his large coat pocket onto his seat.

A smirk seizes Sherlock's lips. How did he forget that he has had a mystery to solve in his pocket all along?

_-D-A-_

_14 Apr., 2011_

_Dear Antirealist,_

_It's been a while since I last wrote to you. I'm sorry to have left you dangling for this long; the brief explanations of realism and anti-realism in my last letter certainly weren't enough to quench your curiosity, were they?_

"Indeed not," Sherlock mutters to himself with a snort. "Glad to see that you're aware."

_Let me try to give you an example, then._

_All matter is made from atoms. Electrons are sub-atomic particles that are crucial in dictating an element's chemical properties. Now, pretend that we are in the year 2007, where we could not yet observe electrons under any microscope. You, dear antirealist, would argue that electrons are non-existent because they can't be seen. Of course, you have a point. How can one be sure that something is physically existent when one can't even see it? You would say that electrons are only convenient tools invented by scientists, to establish scientific theories which can then be used as predictable models to advance human technology._

"I'm very ready to agree with this 'dear antirealist'," mumbles Sherlock quietly with a nod. "Theories, sub-atomic particles, bah! In the science of deduction, only the macroscopic, observable qualities are useful. I'm quite prepared to think of everything else as non-existent."

_But we realists don't think that way. _

_We hold firm that electrons are real, because their hypothetical existence served as a basis for scientific theories that were - are - astonishingly accurate. How can electrons be non-existent, when they have allowed us to predict physical and chemical properties of the matter around us for countless times without fail? How can we deny their rights of existence, their roles in the development of modern technology, simply because we can't _see _them?_

_Dear antirealist, how can you be so certain that electrons were unreal, instead of being material entities that were too deeply hidden? How can you be so certain that they were not simply waiting for us to finally discover them by eye in 2008?_

_How can you be so certain that all things existent _must _be visible to the human eye?_

_Sincerely,_

_A Realist_

___-D-A-_

Sherlock stares pensively out of the window of his cab, nibbling his lower lip lightly and rubbing the tip of his chin thoughtfully with a slender finger.

He was at first dismissive, as he stepped off the train and stuffed the notebook back into his pocket. None of the details of sub-atomic particles are relevant to his science of deduction, he thought, whether or not they were - are - observable. But as he plopped himself on the seat of the taxi, he remembered Molly's last line in the diary entry again, and it dawned on him that Molly did have a point.

It wasn't just about electrons.

Sherlock mind flashes back to one of the countless cases he has solved: the first case he has ever tried to investigate, but did not solve until much later. _Clostridium botulinum_. The toxic bacteria which killed Carl Powers. He isolated them from the victim's shoes and observed them under the microscope, leading him to his final conclusion on the cause of Carl Powers's death. He knows for a fact that they are existent, because he can see them.

What if he were born before _Clostridium botulinum_ became observable, say, more than a century ago, before microscopes were even invented? If he worked the same job he is working now, would he have harboured a similar attitude toward _Clostridium botulinum_ - or even bacteria in general - as how he felt about electrons before they became microscopically visible? Would he have dismissed the concept of bacteria as nonsense? Probably. Just as how he once dismissed sub-atomic particles as nonsense, or how he deemed everything he can't immediately observe, such as the precise functioning of the solar system, irrelevant to the nature of his work.

And yet there is a possibility that those he scorned as non-existent may in fact have been _real_ all along. There is a possibility that he can't see them now only because they're _waiting_ to be seen.

The far future may prove his present perceptions of certain entities terribly _wrong_.

Sherlock's fingers twitch. He chews his lip harder and his eyes narrow. He hates being proven wrong, but he hates being deluded that he's right infinitely more.

The drive from King's Cross to Shoreditch passes in a flash in Sherlock's uncertain, wavering musings. The consulting detective stuffs a hundred-pound bill absentmindedly into the cabbie's hand as the taxi pulls to a stop. He shuts the door on the driver who is still breaking the change, and fumbles in his pocket for keys as he steps pensively toward the door of the flat. His fingers brush across the rough leather surface of the notebook, and he pauses and his head snaps up. He is suddenly hauled out of his philosophical trance.

"Your change, sir!" The cabbie, a boy in his early twenties, runs up the steps to return his money. Sherlock accepts it with a robotic nod, and the cabbie turns back and drives away after flashing a shy and uncertain grin.

Sherlock pulls out the pink notebook and stares.

A single letter to a presumably fabricated identity of a "dear antirealist" - a little less than a page of hand-written, simple words - has kept him from boredom and induced a relatively irrelevant, almost pointless muse for an entire half-hour. And, as of this exact moment, he still has no logical idea as to _why_.

He chuckles softly as he shakes his head and turns to the door, keys in hand.

"Molly, Molly. You are becoming a very interesting puzzle."

* * *

The layout of Mrs. Crawford's flat is exactly the same as Molly's, though the flat is more opulently adorned. The intricately-patterned carpet and the shiny china displays, however, do not radiate comfort. Sherlock flicks on the lights, and groans at their hostile brightness. "Molly sure knows how to choose light bulbs that are more suitable for the ordinary domesticity," he grumbles and walks around the flat for inspection.

Nothing conspicuously suspicious. Of course not. She seemed normal enough to fool even _him_. Sherlock snorts as he seats himself at the kitchen table and flips open the laptop upon it.

"Password." The consulting detective groans, and, after a moment of thinking, heads into the bedroom. "Molly's spoken to me about her landlady's old-age forgetfulness before; Crawford has got to have her passwords written down somewhere. Probably stored away in that writing table in her bedroom. Let's see here... three drawers, and the top drawer shows the most drag marks on its side; clearly opened most often. What do we have here? Ah! A locked notebook. Password's got to be in this one."

He scowls as he catches a scent in the air, and sniffs the lock slightly. "Faint smell of honey; can't have accumulated unless the lock was often exposed to it."

Taking the notebook with him, he returns to the kitchen and violently searches the cabinets and cupboards. A fat jar of honey sits in a mirror cabinet above the stove. Sherlock twists the cap open, and finds a small key taped within it. With a triumphant smirk, he detaches it and jams it into the notebook lock, and the shackle pops open.

The consulting detective flips through the pages and easily finds a list of passwords filed under different dates.

"Avid changer of passwords, are you, Mrs. Crawford? I'm certainly looking forward to the things I'll find within your accounts." he mutters to himself as he types in the most recent scribble under "Laptop: March 2012". A crisp, melodic note sounds, and a Windows desktop reveals itself.

Sherlock rubs his hands with a smirk. "All right. Molly's blog, here I come."

In a few moments, he finds himself staring at a pink, flowery web page filled with cat images. He grimaces. "The stupid colour scheme makes me wince _every_ time. She has _got _to change this silly layout if she wants to blog regularly again."

Indeed, the blog has been updated, and the content of the newest post is not long. Sherlock absorbs everything on the page in a few moments, and he leans back and frowns.

The post contains some generic apologies for having left the blog abandoned for nearly a year, some declarations that she would update often from now on, and, most importantly, some sketches.

Sherlock squints at the eleven caricatures near the bottom of the page. They were definitely drawn by Molly; he's seen her sketches on the white board in the lab often enough to tell in a glance.

They are Molly's self-portraits. Dancing.

Eleven caricatures of dancing Molly, in various performance styles, along with a slim cat sketch that Sherlock has often seen Molly use as a signature.

-_B-L-O-G-_

_30 Mar., 2012_

_I'm back! I know I said I won't be keeping this diary any more, but recently I felt that it's kind of a waste, isn't it? Leaving a blog up here on the net and not making a good use of it, I mean. Well, I'm sorry I've been absent for so long. It won't happen again, I promise._

_I want to use this blog now as a sort of art storage. I draw a lot on my free time and, well, any artist would want his art to be appreciated. I also want to record how my drawings evolve over time, I suppose. I don't know. I just want to use this blog for something useful, you know?_

_Well, here is my first batch of sketches. They're dedicated to a friend that I write to all the time, and they're a bit rough._

_[Ballet] [Hip-Hop] [Jive] [Tango] [Swing] [Gigue] [Ballet] [Hula] [Tango] [Indian] [Jive]_

_-[Cat]_

_I know it's a lot, and these are quick sketches. But I still hope they're pleasant to the eye!_

_I'll be back tomorrow with more :)! X_

_-__B-L-O-G-_

"Molly, Molly. What am I supposed to deduce from this!?" Sherlock can bottle his frustrations no longer, as he paces around the table, releasing periodic groans. "Granted, your little image code is acceptably clever, with each distinct dancing Molly representing a different letter of the alphabet. I imagine that _must_ be the case, because several pairs of the sketches, namely the first and seventh, fourth and ninth, and third and last, are exact duplicates of each other. The friend that you write to daily must be the 'dear antirealist', and given the pattern of your drawings, I'm almost certain that your code corresponds to the word 'antirealist'. But I'm going to need more than that to understand what's going on, and you're saying you won't come back with more until _tomorrow_? Are you _really_ going to make me wait, particularly when _you're_ the one in danger?!"

Unfortunately, yelling at the blog does not solve the problem. Sherlock grouchily seats himself again and attempts to trace the IP of the blogger, with no success. As suspected, she was posting this under surveillance, and the criminals have blocked her IP.

"And yet they allowed her to update the blog." Sherlock taps the table thoughtfully as his frown deepens. They must be either very confident in their eventual success, or they are true lovers of thrill who are willing to put their plan in danger for sheer excitement. Sherlock has every reason to believe they are the former.

"They'll regret this," the consulting detective grits his teeth, and begins to investigate Mrs. Crawford's email accounts.

* * *

-_Day 6_

Sergeant Evan Daniels is in a rotten mood, as he stares with disinterest at the food tray before him.

He woke up feeling dizzy and nauseated, and his limbs felt as if they'd been tied to and dragged by heavy weights for hours. He reckoned it was something like a cold, and would probably improve during the day. It is now dinner time, and his nausea has instead gotten considerably worse. Not even the prospect of wolfing down his favourite burger can ease it.

"Hey," a familiar voice sounds behind him, and before he can turn around, he feels a firm pat on his back that almost sends him toppling forward and smacking his face into his tall burger. He groans.

"Dr. Bateson, I'm trying to eat here."

Bateson, evidently in good spirit, sets her tray down across from his and laughs as she sits. "Since when have you been a weakling who can't even take a light hit?" her laughter pauses as she surveys his face with concerned eyes. "Though you sure do look like shit. You okay?"

"You're very flattering as always," Daniels grumbles and pokes at his fries with a finger. "And I'm fine, I guess. Might've caught a little cold, but otherwise fine."

Bateson studies him more carefully and shakes her head. "You need to go get some medication and some sleep, I say."

"Oh, believe me, I want to," Daniels replies dryly. "But there's a lot to be done about the Arendale case. DI Franklin wants us to search the church again tonight for more clues."

"For God's sake, he won't find a thing if he searches that place for fifty times," Bateson rolls her eyes and takes a bite of her chicken wrap. "Dubois was a smart man. He fooled us, and clearly planned to. Hell, Agent Hooper didn't even find anything useful."

Daniels shrugs. "I suppose Agent Hooper is a lot more shrewd than our detective inspector. How's the autopsy going?"

Bateson's nonchalant expression morphs into a frown. "I was rather hoping you wouldn't ask on the dinner table, but now that you did... there's something questionable that I found, and it needs to be thoroughly investigated."

"What is it?"

"I briefly analyzed a blood sample yesterday," Bateson's frown deepens as she twirls her glass of cola with her right hand. "And there were lower than normal leukocyte counts. Arendale hasn't been dead long enough for white blood cells to begin degenerating, so I think this was due to a pathogenic infection before he was murdered. I'm going to have to do some tissue analysis soon."

Daniels jolts suddenly and stares at the band-aid on his left index finger, feeling cold sweat gather in his palms. "Really?"

"Yeah," Bateson takes a sip of her drink, before catching sight of Daniels's ashen countenance. She slams her glass on the table in alert. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Oh God. Oh God!" Daniels is shaking now, his hands clutching the sides of his head, his fingers groping unsteadily at his bushy locks. "I cut myself with a scalpel at the crime scene! And I've been feeling sick all day!"

"Shit!" Bateson springs from her seat and pulls her disoriented colleage up from his seat. "Daniels, we need to get you into a hospital. Right now."


	6. Scarlet Warehouse

_-Day 5_

_'You'll find this interesting. I found a photo of C.'s husband in a password-protected folder. -SH' -31 Mar. 2012. 3:22A.M._

_'[Image]' -31 Mar. 2012. 3:23A.M._

_'Get yourself to bed. -M' -31 Mar. 2012. 3:25A.M._

_'As if you should be saying that to me. -SH' -31 Mar. 2012. 3:25A.M._

* * *

-Chapter 6-  
_Scarlet Warehouse_

-_Day 5_

"Do what you like. I have nothing to tell."

Such are the first words that Mycroft hears from Clara Crawford, as he joins his subordinates in the interrogation room. A corner of his lips twitches wryly as he scans the woman with a trained glance. The old landlady's fists are clenched, and her teeth are gritted. But the glints of wetness in her eyes betray her weariness and unsettlement.

Mycroft nods to the others. His subordinates shuffle, one after another, obediently out of the room. He pulls out the chair across from the grey-haired woman and sits down, after the screech of metal legs dragging against the floor subsides.

Mrs. Crawford curls back on her seat, her lips quavering. "You're their leader, aren't you? Who are you people? Why would you do this to an old lady? What do you want?"

Mycroft smiles and makes no effort to reply, his eyes cold as ice. Mrs. Crawford cringes. An uncomfortable silence brews in the room. The lady endeavours for a few times to disrupt the silence, but each time that a sound is about to bounce from her larynx, her gaze meets Mycroft's impassive stare, and she chokes the sound into a whimper. Mycroft inclines his head to the right and savours her horror. When he finally deems that this psychological attack of silence has gone on for long enough, he slowly retrieves a piece of paper from his suit pocket and drawls. "I'm here to show you two photographs of a man who once called himself Mr. Guillaume Dubois."

Baffled and curious, Mrs. Crawford leans forward as Mycroft's slender fingers unfold the paper and lays it flat on the table. A shriek fills the room when she sees the second photo of the corpse, and she shuffles hastily back, tipping over her chair and crashing onto the floor. Mycroft frowns and rushes to her aid, but she seems unharmed by the fall and refuses to stand up. The frail landlady hugs her knees and weeps.

Mycroft sighs and hands her a handkerchief.

"T-They said - they said they - w-w-wouldn't harm him," she rubs the handkerchief violently at her eyes and cries repeatedly like a broken record player. "They said they - they said they'll e-ensure his saf-safety if I l-let them into darling Molly's f-f-flat..."

Mycroft studies Mrs. Crawford carefully and skeptically, and when the woman repeats the same sentences for about the fifth time, his expressions soften a little and he lends her an aiding hand. "Please have a seat again, Mrs. Crawford. I won't deny that I have questions, but I imagine you have questions for me as well. I will wait until you are ready to ask them."

For a while, the room is quiet save for Mrs. Crawford's sobs. When, many minutes later, she has recollected enough to speak, she stutters softly, "My husband - how did he die?"

Mycroft answers without missing a beat, "He was strangled to death. We have yet to find the killer. We did, however, find a Guy Fawkes mask at the crime scene."

He resists the urge to raise an eyebrow when he perceives Mrs. Crawford blanche. The lady is stunned immobile, before colour returns to her cheeks and she begins trembling in silent rage. She takes a sharp breath and stares with newfound determination into Mycroft's eyes.

"They threatened me," she begins. "They said that if I didn't give them access to Molly's flat, they'd kill my husband. They didn't keep their word, and I have nothing more to lose now. I don't know much about those people and their plans, but I will tell you everything I know about my husband's involvement with them."

Mycroft scans her glinting irises, her flushed countenance, her clenched fists, and her leaning posture. His trained eyes see truthfulness and vengeance in the old lady, and he leans back on his chair, breathing an inaudible sigh of relief. "I'm listening."

Mrs. Crawford hesitates, wondering how to begin. She finally notices the glass of water on the table which has been untouched. She seizes the glass and takes a few big gulps.

"Dubois was not his real name, and Crawford is my maiden name. My husband's real name was Humphrey Norton. He was one of the nine English specialists sent to Sudan in 1976."

* * *

_-Day 5_

It is nearly noon when Sherlock stirs on Molly's sofa.

"What's with this flowery scent? For God's sake, I told that Icelander cleaning lady to stop spraying questionable chemicals in my room." He mumbles in confusion and sits up, finding himself staring into a pair of cat eyes. Toby is perching on the tea table, and meows in evident satisfaction at seeing a movement from the new human lounging on his momma's couch.

"A cat. Molly's cat." Sherlock rubs his eyes and remembers the hectic events of the days past.

A few hours ago, he has been practically taking Crawford's computer apart. The lady did not use it often, or if she did, she cleaned her secrets up often. There were no useful files he could find in her folders, save a photograph of her husband that was locked away in a password-protected briefcase. She had a few email accounts, but none of them had any contacts, email messages, or chat history stored. The criminals were very cautious in contacting her, and everything told Sherlock that he had to rely on Mycroft to squeeze more information out of the landlady. Finally, at six in the morning, a resigned Sherlock opted to shut the computer and take a first long nap in three days.

"Well, I suppose I did need that," stretching his arms, Sherlock mutters to a curious Toby. "What's there to do other than sleep when I need to thoroughly search a factory later, and when all other clues currently on-hand lead to a dead-end?"

Toby twists his head to the side and jumps off the tea table, waddling toward the kitchenette. Sherlock begins to make his way to the bathroom, and is just about to stifle a loud yawn when a long meow interrupts him. The consulting detective pauses, and finds Toby tapping his paw repeatedly at an empty bowl by the leg of the kitchen table.

"You want me to feed you?" Sherlock blurts with a groan. Deducing a cat, particularly one that, supposedly, was deprived of his temporary feeder, really is a rather easy task to him after everything else.

Toby purrs and leaps atop the counter, waving his paw at the mirror cabinet directly above him.

"Oh, for God's sake, don't insult my memory! I remember where the cat food is! I did a walk-around when I first came in here, remember, _cat_?" Sherlock growls and storms toward the cabinet, flipping it violently open with a loud "bang". Toby screeches and jumps down, cuddling to the table leg beside his bowl.

The consulting detective takes the five boxes of cat food from the cabinet and sets them down on the table, squinting skeptically at the post-it notes on each box for minutes, before deciding to take the box informatively labelled "_Lunch, or potentially brunch if you slept in, for when Toby's in a relatively good mood, so when his meowing is relaxed and he's not arching his back or hissing or trying to scratch you when you try to pet him. Half a bowl would be more than enough. Thanks Mrs. C! x_".

Toby seems fairly happy with his accurate choice; when Sherlock steals a glance from the bathroom's door as he is brushing his teeth, he sees the cat munching silently away. Not even the high-and-mighty intelligent consulting detective can hold back a smile.

_-D-A-_

_25 Apr., 2011_

_Dear Antirealist,_

_I bet that my writings last time were not enough to interest you, or if they were, not for long. So, this time, I want to connect realism and anti-realism to something that'll sound more relevant to you._

_What do you think of emotions, dear antirealist?_

_Can we observe emotions? Are phenomena such as dilated pupils really indicators of emotion? Technically, dilated pupils and rushing pulses are simply the effects of epinephrine acting on our visceral organs, activating our sympathetic nervous systems and stimulating our organs to react as such. All the thing we hypothetically feel - happiness, sadness - can strictly be attributed to a combination of hormones or neural chemicals that bind to receptors on cells in the body, causing a cascade of molecular downstream effects. Why do we call them emotions then, when they are really just a combination of chemical reactions?_

_You're probably nodding your head with a smirk at your lips, thinking to yourself: yes, this is exactly why I deem emotions nonsensical; this is why I believe that, to do my work efficiently, I need to free myself from the effects of chemicals in the body - I need to be immune to them in order to accurately deduce them._

_Succumbing to your own chemical reactions is an anomaly for you. You are an anti-realist when it comes to everything, really, and of course you maintain an anti-realist outlook on emotion as well. You must be proud of it, because the anti-realist view - if it can be called that - on emotions is incredibly rare. _

_We realists believe in emotions because we feel them. You don't believe in them because you can't see them definitively as a separate entity from hormonal pathways and chemical reactions. You don't think sentiment is a legitimate, material state of being. _

_So in the rare instances of you feeling sentiment at all, you are confused and angry at yourself for this supposed weakness, aren't you? Because you've fallen victim to something you don't even consider strictly existent._

_And yet, in some instances, you deduce other people's sentiments to achieve your goal._

_Just as how electrons, before they became observable, were hypothesized tools that scientists used to deduce an element's chemical properties._

_I'm not one to delve deep into philosophy, dear antirealist, but I love how a philosophical concepts can be stretched to apply to more than just its main area of study. I've been stretching scientific anti-realism for this whole letter to apply to emotions, and now I ask the same question I asked about electrons to you: dear antirealist, how can you scorn emotions when, sometimes, not even you can deny feeling them?_

_Or, better yet, how can you know that hormonal pathways and chemical reactions are not simply very trivial bits of a greater entity called sentiment, which we, as humans, do not yet have the ability to strictly "observe"?_

_Sincerely,_

_A Realist_

_-D-A-_

"I said, we're here, sir!"

"Oh," Sherlock snaps out of his long daze and stuffs the pink notebook back into his pocket. He hands a wad of cash to the grumpy, red-faced cabbie, and steps out to the foul air of overloaded tobacco mixed with a stench of desertion. Even he, who has always welcomed the scent of cigarettes, wrinkles his nose in disdain.

The Wilson Tobacco Factory on the Eastern outskirts of London has been deserted for ten years, and is one of two factories in London that still stored some portions of Y1 tobacco, the other being the Kindler Inc. on the west end [1]. On the day that Sherlock left for Ipswich, the rain in London had been particularly heavy on the east end, and it was most logical for the consulting detective to investigate Wilson first.

And as soon as Sherlock discerns a metallic scent of blood mixed with a revolting smell of rotting flesh as he crosses the skeleton remnant of the front building and approaches the rusty main warehouse, he is instantly certain that he made the right decision. He quickens his steps toward its door.

The lift gate of the metal warehouse is slightly ajar, and the foul stench seeps beneath it and fills Sherlock's wary nose. There are no devices in sight that appear to be used to lift the gate further, and Sherlock crouches to tug at the bottom of the gate. The heavy metal piece does not budge, only covering Sherlock's palms with a thick layer of rust. The consulting detective groans and lays himself on the dirty ground, preparing to stay low and crawl in.

His heart sinks the moment his head passes the gap.

As his eyes accommodate themselves to the darkness, he can make out the shapes of piled bodies, surrounded by hills of dried tobacco leaves. He scoots himself quickly in and springs to his feet, hastily seizing the phone in his pocket and putting on the camera light. The sight deepens his frown and tangles his brows tighter, and he feels his heart jump to his throat.

Six bodies. Piled on top of one another atop a stack of tobacco. Blood stained them thoroughly into a single blotch of scarlet, a blotch that spreads and dyes the leaves around them, a blotch that, even in its now-stationary state, seems to extend its crimson tentacles and reach further, as if hoping to fill the whole warehouse with its atrocity.

Sherlock bites his lip and shuffles to the body pile, and inspects each face with the camera light that trembled in his hand. He heaves a long sigh of relief when he discerns that they are all male.

Feeling his heart settle back within his chest, he begins to inspect the bodies and the surrounding. After seeing that all died from a blow to the side of the head like Arendale, and that the dramatic amount of blood is clearly staged with bovine blood, it does not take him long to turn and find something else of considerable interest.

Scribbled across the rusty lift gate in blood are seven giant, squiggly letters that spell menacingly:

_'REVENGE'_

Sherlock steps pensively toward them in hopes to examine them, but he pauses drastically as a sound of grazing metal surfaces above him catches his attention. He jumps back hastily, pulling out his revolver in the process and pointing it warily at an intruder in black who suddenly drops from an opening in the roof. The intruder rises slowly, and Sherlock sees a Guy Fawkes mask before him, its smile cold and wide, as if mocking his efforts.

"Well, now," the intruder raises her hands slowly and begins, her voice muffled but unmistakably feminine. "There's no need to get angry so quickly. I'm unarmed. Besides, this is no proper manner with which to greet a lady."

Sherlock's index finger rubs lightly against the trigger as his frown deepens. "I haven't known ambushing from a roof to be a proper way to greet anybody, either."

The intruder laughs and, seemingly disregarding the gun in Sherlock's hand, takes a step closer. "You're a witty one. I like that. Now I wonder what's the mystery with you, hmm? You call yourself Sigmund Hooper, but you're definitely not him."

"And while you dress yourself in a murderer's garbs, you are not one of them," Sherlock tightens his grip around his revolver and snorts. "They have staged this breadcrumb trail well, from traces of Y1 tobacco on Arendale to this warehouse, and now, judging by your knowledge of my alias, they have potentially planted people in the Suffolk Constabulary. They doused this place with cow blood and destroyed everything useful, and till this point they have not made a mistake. That message on the door is clearly planned to be advertised, and they have no need to send anyone after a potential discoverer. So what's the mystery with _you_? What are _you_ in it for?"

The woman inclines her head, and silence brims the warehouse for a few moments before she laughs and begins again. "You truly are a brainy one. I could like you very much if your fashion senses weren't truly awful. No, I am not one of them, and I'm in it for information and information only. The organization has been more secretive than I thought they would be, and my connections are feeble in this city. I need a partner to help me investigate the background of a man, and who better to negotiate with than a strange man in disguise who's sharp enough to pick up the Y1 tobacco hint, about which the mastermind was confident that no one would understand?"

"Let's drop the honeyed words and get to the heart of it," Sherlock rubs his chin with his free hand pensively. "What do I get in return?"

The woman drawls, and Sherlock can hear the confident smile on her face dripping through her voice. "You get surveillance and protection from me, for the woman named Molly Hooper."

Sherlock's frown deepens, and for a while he does not respond.

"It's no surprise that you who choose Hooper as an alias would be connected to her somehow, isn't it?" the woman continues, tapping her gloved fingers idly on her elbows as she crosses her arms. "I don't know what she is to you, but I imagine you would like to keep her safe. I know the mastermind well enough to... sometimes change his mind on what he intends to do with his toys."

Sherlock ponders over the matter for a few more seconds, before he slowly lowers the revolver in his hand. "Information on one man. That's all I'll offer."

"And my only offer is to keep an eye on Molly Hooper and try to ensure her safety," the woman nods. "Though I think I like you well enough to offer one more tip: don't touch those bodies too much without protection."

Sherlock glances at the bodies with a raised brow. "Done. Name of the man?"

The woman fishes a card from her robe pocket and hands it over. "Godfrey Norton."

* * *

-_Day 8_

Molly massages her temples wearily in her little jail-cell of a room.

Guy Fawkes has been working her and the others hard. They have been in the lab producing vials after vials of the solution for at least twelve hours a day, and at night she could hardly sleep. A mixture of happiness and despair boiled within her every time her head hit the pillow. She was ecstatic that those vials are being produced, and yet she lost hope every day that these vials would ever fall into the right hands.

Presently she sits at her desk, on which an old computer - still Windows XP - and a scanner has been installed at her request, and sketches her dancing Mollies, suppressing her growing headache and her constant wondering if her efforts will all be in vain.

A click sounds at the door, and Guy Fawkes enters, wearing that mocking smile as usual. "Are you done for the day, little lamb?"

Molly has just finished feeding the last sheet into her scanner and nods without the heart to utter a word. Guy Fawkes strides, evidently contently, and swipes the sheets from her hands.

"You're a peculiar one," his slick voice points out, as his slender fingers flip through the pages. "Not a bad artist, but I am beginning to wonder at my assessment of your bravery. All these messages you've been posting online lately have been rather meaningless. Not even funny enough to get a chuckle out of me. Have I misjudged you, darling, or have you still got something else up your sleeve?"

"How - " Molly's eyes suddenly widen, and she stares at him, face ashen.

Guy Fawkes laughs. "I read your little diary, too, remember? Dear Antirealist. Unusual enough for me to remember. Your first post on that blog a few days ago was quite enough to get me started on decoding these dancing figures. And you've posted nothing but rubbish since then. I'm getting bored. I'm waiting for you to surprise me, dear, and if you disappoint me..."

He lifts her chin slowly with a finger, and a trembling Molly can hear his smirk. "You can imagine the rest."

His laugh echoes in the room as he turns his heels and heads for the door. "Oh, and don't try anything too funny with that computer, like we first negotiated. You can imagine what will happen to you if you do that, too."

Molly bites her lip and stares at the door for a long while after he is gone, before she allows herself to breathe a little sigh of relief. Her heart has already calmed and settled.

Guy Fawkes did not understand the true secret in her messages yet.

As she lies down on her hard bed for rest, however, she wonders how much more time Guy Fawkes will give her, and if Sherlock - Mycroft - _anyone_ - would decipher her message before it's too late.

* * *

[1]: Factory facts are completely fictional; the existence of Y1 tobacco as well as its controversy in late 20th century are not.


End file.
